Tightrope
by Chapucera
Summary: Historical phic. It is February, 1939, and Franco's troops descend upon Barcelona as the Spanish Civil War grinds to its sinister end. Bereaved and facing starvation, Christine Daaé fights for survival. Soon, the shadow of the Second World War will loom over Spain - and she will be forced to deal with Erik Deschamps, a terrifying mercenary whose only loyalty is to her. E/C.
1. Chapter 1

**Greetings, dear readers, and welcome to my latest phic. It's been a few years! I wanted to do something different, so I set _Tightrope_** **in Spain during one of its darkest times - the period from the end of its civil war to the first years of World War II. There was quite a bit of intrigue during those times.**

 **This phic is a finished work, and I would never have gotten it done without the wonderful help of my Beta, FantomPhan33 - who, as we all know, is an enormously talented writer. A lesser-known fact is that she's also a very patient and insightful editor.**

 **I'm planning to update this story weekly. _Tightrope_ is also available in its entirety on Amazon under my pen name, Chapucera, if you'd like to read all of it at a go rather than wait for my weekly updates. Also available on Amazon is the POTO-inspired novel _The Falconer,_ which was co-written by Inkblottales ( _The Chain Unbroken_ ) and myself (her cover art is amazing). Our shared pen name is Alex Chapman. **

**My thanks to all who read this phic, and particular thanks to those who are so kind as to offer feedback as well.**

* * *

 _"Daily Newspaper at the Service of Democracy" –_ La Vanguardia _newspaper's motto on January 25, 1939_

 _"Daily Newspaper at the Service of Spain and Generalisimo Franco"_ – La Vanguardia _newspaper's motto on January 27, 1939_

 ** _January 26, 1939, Barcelona_**

Her father's body arrived at her house the same day the world ended.

Christine had just hung a white bed sheet from the balcony of her flat on the Ronda de Sant Pau. In the winter sunlight, bedsheets hanging from other balconies billowed gently in the cold breeze, too. It was wash day in Barcelona. No more banners of anarchist black and red, or of simple Marxist red. No more of the red, gold and purple of the Spanish Republic; that dream was dead. Today's color was stainless white, the color of surrender. Behind the balconies, families waited, hoping that the improvised white flags would appease hardened north African troops.

General Yagüe's forces would be coming within hours, perhaps minutes. General Yagüe – the Butcher of Badajoz! He had executed thousands by machine gun in the bullring of that city, and many seeking refuge in the cathedral had been killed in front of its altar. What hope could there be for the people of Barcelona?

The roar of a motor disturbed the silence of the empty street, and Christine watched as a military truck lumbered into view. She retreated from sight, heard the squeal of brakes, heard the truck shudder to a stop in front of her building. _Sinister._ So much was sinister these days, from the air raids that left dead children, to the hunger, _the interminable hunger_ , to the tuberculosis which claimed more people every day. How many horsemen galloped through this apocalypse, and which one was calling at her door now? Fear paralyzed Christine; still, she peeked through the curtains down to the street. Her flat was on the first floor, just above ground level.

She had spent the morning listening to the radio and crying as she watched the panicked bustle of neighbors hurrying down the road, desperate enough to flee Barcelona on foot. The sounds of flight had been punctuated by the noise of explosions coming from the Sarriá district; the last of the Republic's troops had blown up the armory just prior to retreat. There were no cars or trucks left now. Anything with a motor had long since been requisitioned. _Why was this truck here?_

"What is it?" Mamá Valerio whispered shakily. Her face was gray, emaciated, and her hair hung loose. She smelled of camphor and perspiration.

Christine jumped slightly, turned to look at her guardian, and decided not to scold her for leaving her sickbed. "It's just an old Ford," she murmured, trying to smile.

"You know what I mean! Are they…?"

Christine held her breath and peeked out the curtains again. Her heart began to hammer as she saw two uniformed men emerge. "They're Nationals," she confirmed in a whisper.

"Fascists!" Mamá's face turned a paler shade of gray.

They heard the steps ascending the stairway just before the banging on the door started.

"Get into bed, Mamá," Christine said in a fierce whisper.

Mamá no longer bothered to lower her voice. "Don't open the door! Don't do it! I'll never see you again! You've heard what they do…!" But the coughing started, cutting her off. She sank into an armchair by the window.

The banging continued. Christine approached the door, trembling, knowing that she had no choice. She opened it.

The man in the doorway made no move to rush in, but regarded her tiredly. "Señora...Daaé?" His hat was in his hand. Christine glanced at the three red stripes on the sleeve of his khaki uniform. _A corporal_.

"Yes…?"

"Please go away, please take yourself away…" came Mamá's weak voice.

The corporal shook his head rapidly and held up a calming hand. "Forgive the intrusion, but I come bearing sad news. We've just driven down with the troops from the south, where your father was executed in Tarragona two days ago. We bring his body to you, señora, for burial…"

* * *

Decency was forgotten. Such things had flown. Christine did not care that she was accompanying two strange men, unchaperoned. She could do nothing more than _exist_ in the front seat next to Corporal Guerrilla as he threw the truck into gear. The other soldier, a small, wiry private, sat in the bed of the truck with his knees bent, his back against the coffin. Gradually, as they began to move down the Ronda de Sant Antoni, Christine became aware of the corporal's attempts at conversation.

"…Our chaplain, Father Efrén, tried to save your father, whom he deemed to be a special man, from the firing squad, but it was no use. He thought the world of your father, and so he charged us with the errand of bringing his mortal remains back to you for a decent burial. It cost him money, I know, but he's arranged a place in the Poble Nou Cemetery, in the Protestant section, of course…"

"What about Father's violin?" Christine interrupted.

Corporal Guerrilla frowned. "A violin? It's true, now that I remember…Father Efrén said your father was a violinist…well, I don't know what happened to it. I don't know… _carajo_ , they really bombed the devil out of this city, didn't they?"

They were approaching the Plaza Universitat on the Ronda de St. Antoni, and were now passing several badly bombed-out buildings.

Christine sighed. _YOUR side bombed the devil out of this city!_ But she knew better than to antagonize a corporal from an invading army. In spite of the waves of numbness assaulting her, she understood he was doing her a special favor, and she chose her words carefully.

"It was the Italians mostly…those Savoy-Marchetti bombers of theirs. They killed over a thousand people in March alone, and that's when everyone really started leaving, even the refugees." Christine swallowed hard at the memory. "So many children were killed when they bombed the Plaza Sant Felip Neri," she nearly whispered.

Corporal Guerilla said nothing. The sparse number of pedestrians was beginning to swell in number, and Christine could hear the distant sound of a brass band and the roar of voices. Franco's conquering army was progressing through the city. As they neared the Plaza de Catalunya, the crowds began. The military march from the band blared, and Christine looked towards the right, to where the mob scene in the plaza itself was. The noise was joyous. Arms were outstretched in the fascist salute, and she could see a group of nuns among those saluting. Then the soldiers themselves came into sight, marching four abreast, and the crowd parted for them. More shouts, more _vivas_. The war had ended, for some.

"What happened to all the pigeons?" Guerrilla asked, pressing the accelerator and shifting into third as he continued to move the truck slowly eastward.

"I beg your pardon?" Christine turned a confused gaze upon him.

"There were bunches of pigeons in the Plaza Catalunya, but I don't see any now. When I was a child, visiting my uncle here, we'd go and we'd feed them –"

"People stewed them all," Christine interrupted.

Guerrilla turned to stare at her, his mouth slightly open.

"Excuse me for that, corporal," she apologized, "but things have been difficult here. People have been hungry, and squab was more attractive than cat. The cats have disappeared, too, though."

The corporal turned his gaze to the road again. "So, the stories are true. I thought _we_ were hungry in the trenches…forgive me, señora, but you do appear rather thin. And your mother has…?"

"Tuberculosis, yes," Christine supplied softly. She did not bother to tell him that Mamá Valerio was not truly her mother.

"She is lucky to have a daughter like you."

In spite of her current state of shock, Christine felt a pang. She had been caring for Mamá, it was true, even caring for her well, but she had often been short with her - she, who had once considered herself patient, and perhaps even kind.

The niche yawned empty before Christine, awaiting her father's mortal remains. Marble angels and torches surrounded their impromptu funeral party, and a cemetery caretaker approached and greeted Guerrilla. The wiry private who had ridden stolidly in the back of the truck now shoved the coffin unceremoniously towards the edge of the truck's bed and jumped out. He did not so much glance at Christine but busied himself with the other men as they hoisted the box onto their shoulders and transferred it with indecorous speed into the niche. Guerrilla paused.

"What prayers do you Protestants pray at interments? Father Efrén gave your father Extreme Unction, Protestant or not."

"The…the _Pater Noster_ will…will have to do," she stammered.

Her tears started as the men intoned the Our Father almost as a reflex in automatic Church Latin. _No more music._ _Now, no more hope._ Almost immediately after the last syllable of the prayer, the caretaker took up mortar and spatula and began the work of sealing the niche with cinder blocks. Corporal Guerrilla cleared his throat.

"You understand that we didn't have time to get a stone with your father's name worked into it," said Guerrilla almost apologetically.

Christine nodded. "I'll remember where he is."

Her tears continued, but she could not feel them until a cold wind sliced through the cemetery. She looked up towards the horizon, where a pale crescent moon was rising.

* * *

The same crescent moon shone upon the Roman amphitheater in Tarragona 80 kilometers away, where Captain José Luis Oscuro Martín waited, crouching, to see what would happen between Father Efrén and that…shadow. How else could he describe the creature? Officially, the shadow's surname was supposed to be Deschamps, but nobody believed it. There was a nebulous quality to everything about him, including things that were treated as fact. The only truths whispered about Deschamps throughout the ranks involved the frightening extent of his power. It was rumored that even the Nazis feared him, and he was their creature.

Oscuro had followed Father Efrén on his nighttime excursion to the amphitheater. He was no fool; he had seen the tension in the priest as he left the prison compound, read his trepidation like a book. He knew instinctively that the man could only be meeting with Deschamps, but why was he doing it? Most intriguingly, why was he carrying a violin case, and what could it contain? It seemed out of character for the priest to be taking a weapon anywhere. The fool was too good to be a priest; he still worshiped God over Franco's Falangist movement. The other priests knew what side their bread was buttered on and whooped alleluias and hosannas every time another godless Red was executed. Not Father Efrén…

In the poor moonlight, Oscuro could barely discern the priest's figure. He was waiting, and Oscuro waited with him and continued to ponder Deschamps. He hated the freak with a passion, had hated him from the moment he met him. Their first meeting had been a disaster. Oscuro had brought Deschamps a fine bottle of dry sherry, but Deschamps had immediately refused the gift and had sent him on an errand, barely dignifying him with a glance. The humiliation had chafed at him ever since, as had his superiors' insistence that he - an Oscuro Martín! - play errand-boy to the creature. He had never done anything to offend Deschamps; he had been warned beforehand of the half-mask he wore and had heard the rumors about his strange eyes. He had not stared at the freak in spite of nearly overwhelming temptation, and had actually treated him with abject deference. The injury to his pride was nearly as great as the injury to his overweening ambition. Oscuro was from a good family of Zaragoza, and Deschamps was to have been his stepping-stone to greater things, not his overlord!

For the thousandth time, Oscuro cursed his mother and sister. Their love of luxury had nearly ruined the family after his father's death, but it had been his mother's lover who had appropriated what remained of the family fortune and fled to parts unknown. His mother was a slut, as were all women. Again, Oscuro's mind settled on the paradox that was Deschamps. The man could tolerate all kinds of outrages against the enemy. He could even be somewhat inventive where interrogation was involved. Yet the day the man had learned that some of the mercenary troops from northern Africa had raped the women of a town they had taken, he had flown into a vicious rage; he had killed a man with his bare hands, it was said, and had nearly killed another. What did Deschamps care what happened to those Red bitches?

A slight movement in the darkness near the priest interrupted Oscuro's thoughts, and he struggled to focus. The amphitheater rose up before him as a dark mass, the Mediterranean shining like a dark mirror far below in the background, and he nearly missed the glow of yellow eyes that hovered above the priest. Don Efrén nearly missed them, too, and jumped with a slight yelp. He could not hear any of the brief conversation between the priest and Deschamps which followed, but he did hear the notes of the violin afterwards. They floated, perfect, _sublime_ , in the winter air, and even Oscuro appreciated the musician's talent.

Oscuro sat with his back against ancient limestone, well out of view. Deschamps – the brutal, cold creature – a musician? The music faded. The captain continued trying to fit the pieces together, amazed and oblivious to his surroundings, so he was taken by surprise when he was suddenly jerked upwards by his shoulders. His tendons screamed with pain.

"To what do I owe the honor of your presence here, _Don_ José Luis?" The glowing yellow eyes penetrated straight into Oscuro's. Instinctively, he assessed his ability to flee the situation, but his feet were dangling above the ground.

"As curious as you are about my habits, have you somehow missed the fact that I do _not_ like being spied upon?" Oscuro felt himself sliding downwards. The long, nearly skeletal fingers of his attacker were now clasped around his throat. His vision swam, and the dark night became blacker…

"But this is terrible! Please release him!" It was Father Efrén.

The grip continued.

"Please, Deschamps, this is unworthy of you!"

Deschamps released Oscuro so suddenly that the captain fell, sprawling, to the dusty ground. Consciousness rushed back and he found himself staring at the hem of the priest's cassock. He looked upward – Deschamps was looking down at Don Efrén with a strange, contemplative expression but then turned and was gone.

Father Efrén squatted and observed Oscuro. "Are you well?"

"Well enough, Father. What was that violin business all about? I thought something illicit was going on, what with all the secrecy, that's the only reason I'm here." Oscuro couldn't stop a note of petulance from entering his voice.

"Herr Deschamps needed a violin and was willing to pay good money for one. And that money was needed to give a good man a decent burial."

" _Herr_ Deschamps plays the violin like the devil incarnate. He _is_ the devil incarnate!" Oscuro spat.

Don Efrén shook his head, and his eyes were sad. "No, Captain. He's merely a man navigating Hell. We all are."


	2. Chapter 2

**My thanks to all who have reviewed this story thus far. I especially want the kind people who reviewed anonymously to know I'm grateful for their feedback, as I'm unable to respond to their reviews.**

 **Hope you enjoy!**

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 _Madrid – The provincial headquarters of the Supplies and Transportation department announces a period of five days during which everyone who has a quantity of cooking oil superior to ten liters may render a sworn declaration regarding the amount he possesses. Any oil over this ten-liter limit will be immobilized automatically. Any person who has not made this declaration once the five days have passed and is found by agents of authority to be in possession of such an amount of oil will lose it. Whoever reports the existence of a clandestine supply of such oil will receive payment of ten percent of the value of the decommissioned goods._

 _–_ La Vanguardia _, October 5, 1940_

 ** _October, 1940 (20 months later) - Gran Teatro Victoria, Barcelona_**

" _Gelobter Held! Entflieh' dem Wahn! Blick' auf! Sei hold der Huldin Nah'n_!"

Christine winced as she listened to Carlotta Caracciolo's poor efforts at German. She was not fluent in the language, but even she knew that Carlotta's singing bore a distinct Italian accent. As the reigning diva at the Gran Teatro Victoria, Carlotta had been given the role of Kundry in the theater's ambitious production of "Parsifal" without so much as a second thought.

Hearing snickering behind her, Christine turned to find Margarita Girol, one of the production's dancers, behind her.

"How d'you think Heinrich Himmler's going to like Carlotta Caracciolo's insults to Wagner?" the ballerina asked.

"Shhhh!" Christine shushed her, looking around apprehensively, then added in a whisper, "Don't you know there are ears everywhere, Marga? You of all people should know that."

"We may be backstage, but we're close enough to Carlotta's racket not to be overheard," Margarita said. "Besides, you know I have friends who protect me. You could, too, you know."

Christine flushed. It was common knowledge that Margarita was sleeping with Gonzalo Fernández, a high-ranking official with the _franquista_ police.

It seemed incredible to everyone, especially to Christine, that the same girl who had been a passionate anarchist during the war was now sleeping with the Regime. The most mooted explanation was that Marga now hated Stalinists and wished to avenge herself against them. After all, all the divergent groups of the Left should have hung together, during the war at least – and they _had_ been united against Franco and his fascist cause, in the beginning. Yet during the fateful month of May, 1937, the Stalinists had slipped from the Republic's control, assumed all authority, and had betrayed anarchists, the unions, and even other communists, attacking them throughout the city in order to consolidate power. Margarita had armed herself with a kitchen knife during a skirmish between the police and anarchists near the telephone company building, but the weapon had been of no use to her. She had been disarmed immediately and had spent months in prison, watching as fellow anarchists and members of the anti-Stalinist POUM party were tortured and killed. Just before Barcelona fell, Marga had been released. Yet instead of fleeing northwards to France, as others in her situation did to save themselves, Marga had remained in the city. Her budding relationship with Fernández had saved her from the firing squad, and now she was even back at the Gran Teatro Victoria, renewing her career more or less where she had left it. In addition, she enjoyed the power that Fernández bestowed upon her, and she was treated with respect. Only Carlotta dared insult the dancer to her face.

Margarita continued at Christine's elbow, observing her narrowly. "Have you given any more thought to my offer, Christine? Gonzalo and I could protect you from Carlotta's little intrigues, just think about it…"

 _Carlotta Caracciolo_! She was an unrelenting shadow over Christine's life. Her hero was Mussolini, and she claimed to be related by blood to Count Ciano, Il Duce's son-in-law and foreign minister, the same one who had bragged, "The victory in Spain carries only one name, the name Mussolini." As if that had not been enough, Ciano had come to Barcelona personally in July of 1939 to gloat. The new managers of the theater, who were well-connected with the Spanish Falange, were intimidated by her. As a consequence, she was praised by them constantly, given all manner of luxurious gifts, and carte blanche as an artist. Ever jealous of her position at the theater, Carlotta made it clear to those around her, especially Christine, that she could denounce anyone as a communist or subversive at a whim with devastating results. Christine constantly worried about how much Carlotta might have learned about her. She was sure that the diva did not yet know enough to have her arrested, but she was certain that the woman was on the lookout for information. _How she would love to know that her father, Gustave Daaé, had been in the International Brigade, and then there was –_

" _You_? What are you doing here, spying on me, you vulgar little no-talent?"

Christine jumped. She had not noticed Carlotta's sudden approach, as she had turned her back to the stage in order to look at Margarita. Carlotta stepped between the women, coming closer until she loomed over Christine, not six inches away from her. She looked down her Roman nose at the younger woman, her dark eyes glinting with cold hatred. Christine felt a thrill of fear but kept her composure, fixing her stare somewhere above Carlotta's left shoulder.

"You look like a crow in that black of yours, and you sing like a crow, too," Carlotta spat.

"Signorina, please, a little respect for her mourning…" Margarita's voice held the edge of one whose patience was at its limit.

"Indeed, you have my deepest sympathy," Carlotta sneered, her voice laden with sarcasm. "Who are you mourning, by the way?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Marga snapped.

Christine looked down at her skirt. She had had all her clothing dyed black following her father's death, but the ring she wore gave people the welcome impression that she was a young widow. There were so many widows now that very few people ever bothered to inquire about her loss and merely murmured words of sympathy.

"Come with me." Margarita seized Christine's arm and pulled her away from Carlotta, propelling her towards the theater's back exit. The door slammed behind them, and the long shadows of late afternoon filled the abandoned alleyway behind the building. Christine made a feeble effort to free herself from Marga's grip, but she desisted when her vision started to go gray. She would _not_ faint!

Marga shook her slightly. "Look at you! You're starving! Why don't you just accept my offer and be done with it?"

 _Because I'd sell my soul_ , Christine longed to say, but she roused herself to diplomacy. "Marga…you want me to work towards the noble cause of exposing Judeo-Masonic plots against the New Spain, and I am honored, honored that both you and Sr. Fernández think me worthy…but I'm not sure my English is really up to par. And I'm awkward socially. How could I fit in with the English and Americans well enough to spy on them properly? Perhaps my parents were Swedish, but I must remind you that I was born here in Barcelona and have lived here all my life. I _am_ Spanish."

"I know that – don't forget that I know you, and I know I can trust you," said Marga, whose eyes constantly swept the alleyway to check whether they were still alone. "And don't forget that I know you are an excellent translator as well. I remember how you used to take translation jobs back before…well, before everything got complicated. You're fluent in English and Swedish with some notions of other Nordic languages, and…and even Gonzalo says you're a very pretty little Viking. Your looks could get you far, _rubia_ , if you could get a decent bite to eat…"

Tears stung as they tried to escape Christine's eyes. She had heard about her looks too often for comfort. She had a type of beauty that looked foreign, and men often assessed her openly. Ever since rationing had started and women were selling themselves on the streets for something to eat, men had been offering Christine food and other luxuries in exchange for favors. Many of the other singers in the theater's chorus had already become the _queridas_ of black marketeers, but she had managed to resist. Which was worse – to sell her body for food, or to sell her principles for food by working as a spy for Franco...a spy for Hitler?

Margarita drew close to her, so close that she could see the hazel flecks in her large gray eyes. "What I'm asking is not as bad as you think," she whispered, her eyes still surveying the area around them. "In fact, I promise you that it is not _what_ you think. You remember me from before the war, when we were in conservatory together?"

Christine nodded mutely, knowing that her agony showed in her eyes. Margarita had been a friend back then – she had been a faithful, steady, loyal friend. They had been close. Then the war had come and everything had changed.

Marga seemed to read her mind. "What if I told you that I'd never changed? Would you trust me?"

Christine looked into Marga's eyes and tried to believe her. She nodded slightly.

After a moment's hesitation, Margarita pressed a tiny piece of paper into her hand. "Then meet me at this address on Tuesday at five in the afternoon and bring your rationing book. Memorize the address now and destroy that paper, do you understand? I promise I'll explain everything."

* * *

José Luis Oscuro arrived late to the box at the Teatro Gran Victoria. He was pleased that nobody had seen him before the lights had dimmed. Now that he was an official with Franco's secret police, he wished to exercise discretion. It was best not to attend many public events in his position, but he had been invited to attend "Parsifal" by none other than Gonzalo Fernández, whose friendship he cultivated. The first orchestral whispers of the overture were just beginning as he moved towards the front of the box to sit beside Fernández, who nodded at him and grunted a greeting. Oscuro removed his hat and gloves and sat ramrod straight with his chin elevated, as was his habit. His eyes glanced at the huge portrait of Hitler presiding just above the stage. Behind him, there was movement, and he dared a quick glance at the chairs there. The foreigner who had just seated himself directly behind him was Karl Resenberg, the Third Reich's highest representative within Spain. Next to Resenberg, as impeccably dressed as ever and looking directly at Oscuro with eyes of icy fire, was Erik Deschamps.

The Knights of the Grail appeared onstage below them and Kundry made her wild appearance shortly thereafter, singing in a German so italianate that Oscuro heard Resenberg exclaim something; Deschamps answered him briefly in a flat, disgusted tone. Oscuro barely noticed what was transpiring on stage, heightened as his senses were by his awareness of Deschamps. He had not seen him since his humiliation at Tarragona, and the hairs at the back of his neck stood on end just at hearing the man's coldly beautiful voice again.

At the first intermission, Fernández turned to Oscuro. "You have to admit this is a first-rate production, absolutely first-rate! The Teatro Gran Victoria is set to surpass the Liceo now, I think, and won't that be splendid? And keep in mind that the Liceo was the very first theater anywhere authorized to stage 'Parsifal' after the Bayreuth Festspielhaus – now, that's beating them at their own game!"

Oscuro glanced behind him and saw that both Resenberg and Deschamps had disappeared. "I quite agree with you, Gonzalo, it's capital, and –" here he lowered his voice "It's not a bad move with so many distinguished officials of the Third Reich in the city. Not a bad strategy at all. Though I'm surprised to see Karl Resenberg seated behind us tonight…"

"Is he? Well, I hope he's pleased with it all. I was hoping Heinrich Himmler might attend tonight. He's staying at the Ritz, after all, but I guess he's tired. He presided a parade in his honor in the Poble Espanyol today. I hope he likes Barcelona better than Madrid. You know, they took him to see a bullfight there, and he was horrified by all the blood." Fernández smiled under his closely-trimmed moustache.

Oscuro nodded absently, then chose his next words carefully. "I see that that fellow…Herr Deschamps? The one who was so useful in the war…I see that he's here, too."

Fernández's usually relaxed posture tensed slightly. "He continues to be of use, of course. The Germans want him here. And we mustn't forget how much we owe to the Condor Legion – without them, Franco's victory would have been impossible."

"Do you think we will soon be paying Hitler back…in full?" Oscuro's voice was barely above a whisper.

Fernández knew what he meant. Now that the Third Reich had helped Franco to his victory over the Republic, Hitler had recently met with Franco, and the message was clear: Spain was to return the favor by entering the European war in formal alliance with Germany and Italy. But Fernández shook his head.

"Franco's put Hitler off again. We don't need another war! And anybody can see that we need what's left of our troops at home. We're doing all we can for Hitler here in Spain. He's got his people everywhere, so you'll understand why the English and Americans are so upset with us. We were supposed to be a neutral country. The Germans will understand our position. Even _I'm_ doing my utmost for their cause. I've even got my darling Margarita recruiting spies for them now," Fernández said in a confidential tone. "By the way, look carefully at the dancers moving around the Flower Maidens during this second act. The one in pink gauze is my Margarita…"

The curtain had begun to rise again, and Oscuro noticed that Resenberg and Deschamps were now returning to their seats. Resenberg seemed to be in an affable mood, but Deschamps wore an air of bored resentment as he glanced towards the stage.

The Flower Maidens soon were singing and fluttering around Parsifal in Klingsor's garden, and as Oscuro searched for Fernández's current mistress among the dancers, he _sensed_ something behind him. Oscuro dared to turn his head slightly and saw that Deschamps had gone completely still. The sneer he had worn was gone, and those glowing eyes were riveted on the stage with something immense like… _wonder_? The novelty of catching Deschamps with his guard thus down made Oscuro's pulse race, and he made the most of the man's distraction as he attempted to discern the object of such rapt attention. It had to be one of the Flower Maidens or one of the dancers, he concluded, but _which one_? He frowned as he concentrated on the singers. The distinct crystalline soprano of one of the Flower Maidens soared in lush beauty over the other voices. He located the singer and squinted against the light which shone off of her, for she was a fair, Nordic-looking creature, almost elf-like in her loveliness. _Her, maybe?_ The colorful dancers were better suited to the white brightness of the stage lights, and he turned his attention to them. There was one with sinfully beautiful long legs...

"Lovely, isn't she?" came Fernández's appreciative whisper, and Deschamp's eyes snapped immediately to Oscuro. They were charged with such cold hostility that the policeman felt a knot of fear tighten his stomach.

"Margarita is lovely indeed," agreed Oscuro, feigning calm as he turned to regard Fernández once more.

Within Oscuro, a torment of glee edged with terror raged. So, Deschamps _did_ have a vulnerability. Sooner or later, he would discover which woman bedeviled the man.


	3. Chapter 3

**Many thanks to those who have left feedback! I'm most grateful. Here's wishing my U.S. readers a very happy Independence Day!**

* * *

 _The same evening of the day Churchill tried to glean some balance of hope from England's state of desperation, the Germans let fall 300,000 kilograms of bombs on London. This is the German reality confronting English hopes. –_ La Vanguardia _, October 10, 1940_

The address Margarita had given Christine was on the Carrer Sepúlveda. It was only about three blocks away from her own flat in the Eixample District, and she had the unnerving feeling that this proximity was no coincidence. She saw with some surprise that the place was a grocer's, and she arrived just as the shopkeeper was pulling up the shutter in preparation for afternoon business.

Christine paused in the doorway, hesitating, and surveyed the grocer's poor selection. There were grapes, some early mandarin oranges, but very little else to be seen. She glanced down at her rationing book. She had already used the bimonthly allotment of 200 grams of garbanzos, and bread and eggs were a luxury provided only on the black market. Going to black marketeers was out of the question on Christine's budget. They charged ten times the official price for whatever they sold. Once, in an act of desperation, Christine had herself made the infamous starvation omelet following a neighbor's recipe: she soaked the white membrane from oranges so that they could masquerade as potatoes, and eggs were substituted by a mixture made up of flour, water, bicarbonate, pepper, oil, salt and food coloring. Nothing really worked. She and Mamá Valerio were slowly starving; in fact, Mamá was sicker than ever.

"Christine?" Marga's voice startled her from her worries.

Without waiting for an answer, Marga pulled Christine towards the back of the shop. She gave the shopkeeper a brief nod, which he returned. There were no customers in the shop yet.

"Up these stairs. It's the next floor," said Marga, and nearly hauled her up the staircase with her.

Marga unlocked a door and propelled Christine through a foyer and into a sitting-room. A stylishly-dressed woman, her brunette hair impeccably coiffed, sat on the sofa smoking a cigarette and drinking coffee. Upon seeing Christine, she stood gracefully and moved towards her, her hand extended. It took Christine two seconds to understand that the woman wished to shake her hand rather than to greet her with the usual friendly kiss to each cheek. The handshake was awkward – limp on Christine's part, while the woman's grip was firm.

"So, we finally meet! I've seen you at the Victoria Theater, Christine. What a lovely, seductive Flower Maiden you make!" The woman spoke American-accented English in a warm contralto and retrieved her cigarette from the ashtray to take another careless puff as she scrutinized her new acquaintance, smiling. Christine was reminded of Lauren Bacall, of sleek advertisments in glossy magazines, of a fantasy of Hollywood. Seen in a sitting room in the Eixample District, the woman looked as exotic as a bird of paradise.

Margarita cleared her throat. Christine knew she did not speak or understand English and wondered whether she was annoyed at being cut out of the conversation, but she merely said, "She's Gloria Munroe. She'll explain everything to you. You can put away your rationing book – it was just for cover."

After Marga had left the room, Gloria sat down, crossing her long legs as she continued to survey Christine. "I'm sorry, dear. I keep forgetting that I have to invite you Spanish girls to sit down. Please, take a seat! I don't suppose you care for a cigarette, either? Of course not, it's not ladylike to smoke here. But you sure don't _look_ Spanish, do you?"

"Neither do you," said Christine, perching uneasily on the edge of an armchair. "And you know that only men are permitted cigarette rations in this country, Miss Munroe."

"Please! It's Gloria to you, honey. I hear Margarita's got you all in a frazzle, thinking you'll have to spy for the Germans...darn, where is that girl? Maria!"

A white-gloved maid entered almost immediately with a tray laden with coffee and apple tarts. Against her will, Christine's mouth watered. She willed herself to keep her mind on the conversation.

"You know that Gonzalo Fernández is trying to recruit me as a spy?"

"And he will succeed," said Gloria, pouring coffee into a china cup. "But he's going to get more than he bargained for. Cream? Sugar?"

Christine nearly goggled at these luxuries but managed a soft "please" instead.

"I reckon you've worked out the fact that your friend Margarita's not really working for Mr. Fernández. She's using him."

As Gloria took another puff on her cigarette, Christine nibbled on a tart while trying not to appear frantic.

Gloria picked a brown folder up from a side table and opened it, examining the contents.

"It shouldn't surprise you that we have a dossier on you, under the circumstances - gee, don't choke on the tart, dear! Wash that down with some coffee! That's the ticket. Let's see…born in 1917 in Barcelona, so you're 23 now…your parents were Swedish, your father a professional violinist, your mother died when you were two…and you were married to Raoul de Chagny in 1935 in a civil ceremony, thus becoming the Vicomtesse de Chagny…"

Christine had paled. "Please, Miss Gloria, very few people know of my marriage, and I was hoping it would stay that way!"

"Don't worry. But it's there in the old civil registry, available for all to see. You didn't try to hide it, did you?"

"Not back then. But then the National uprising happened, and Raoul joined the International Brigades –"

"Which means that you're in danger by association. But your father supported the International Brigades, too, didn't he?"

"He was only an artist, an entertainer. He never fought. He did perform with Paul Robeson once, do you know him? He's a famous American, isn't he?"

"He's a commie," murmured Gloria with sudden darkness.

Christine felt a short, electric burst of fear. "Well, anyway, my father had friends from Sweden in the Edgar André Battalion, and he really stayed with them, until the International Brigades left. Then he entertained for the troops that remained, till the end of the war, until he was killed." Her voice had lowered to a whisper.

"And that's why you're in deep mourning," observed Gloria.

"Yes; that's why I'm in mourning. But you must understand that with my wedding ring and my mourning I appear to be a widow. People make that assumption about me and don't ask too many questions. They won't ask questions as long as I do nothing to call people's attention to me."

"That's not necessarily true. A husband like yours could draw lots of unwelcome attention to you. We don't want him near you as long as you're working for us."

For the first time in a long time, Christine felt tears threatening. "Don't worry. I don't know whether he's dead or alive. The last time I saw him was two years ago, when the International Brigades paraded through Barcelona for the last time." She remembered the day well: Raoul's goodbye, the black and red banners of the anarchists hanging from the balconies, the music and the sorrow as another hope died. "He was supposed to go to Paris and arrange a safe place for Mamá Valerio and me to stay, and passage to France, but he never returned."

"He's alive, I can tell you that much," offered Gloria, tamping out her cigarette.

"Alive! Where? Is he well?"

"There are good reasons why we can't tell you anything more about him, Christine. Good reasons."

"But I –"

"Work with us, and we'll do what we can to reunite you lovebirds when all this is over. But not before. Let's talk about your career now," said Gloria briskly, returning to the brown folder.

"Excuse me, but exactly who _are_ you?" Christine interrupted.

"Our immediate goal is to help the British win the war," eluded Gloria smoothly. "The U.S. may be neutral in this conflict, officially, but so is Spain. Or should I say that Spain is a 'non-belligerent' country? Isn't that the term Franco uses now? But have you seen the number of Germans in Barcelona? You should see how many operatives there are in Madrid, then! We know that Franco serves Hitler, that he's helping finance the war through Spain. There are lots of straw-man businesses...and, my gosh, they've got pro-Nazi propaganda everywhere, even distributed in the churches here! But the worst is that Franco's giving Spanish documentation and identities to Nazi spies as a cover and sending them over to the United States. We need to stop that.

"I must warn you that this work isn't without its risks. But your position at the Victoria should help you, Christine. You've got a great cover – we've arranged weekly concerts at the theater. You'll perform and then pass messages on to our contacts without raising a shred of suspicion. For now I want you to memorize the details of a series of meetings we've organized between different agents for the upcoming weeks. There are one or two bits of information we want to pass on, too – here, read and memorize this before you leave, Margarita says you're good at memorization. We're just beginning to build up our network here, and we need to be discreet. We can't be seen with any of the people listed on this paper, you know."

"What about Gonzalo Fernández? He'll want me to work for _him_."

"We're preparing information for you to pass on to him – trust me, it will consist of just the right proportion of truth to misinformation to keep Fernández satisfied – not _happy_ , but satisfied. We've only got one problem…"

"Which is…?"

"You're going to have to distribute encoded messages to our agents discreetly, perhaps at a meet and greets after your weekly concerts. But there's someone working against us who's extremely good at breaking our codes. You'll have to pass the messages to them in a way that won't be detectable. We need a surefire way for you to pass information on to our contacts without compromising them… and without you giving yourself away."

Christine, now on her fifth tart, chewed slowly as she contemplated the problem. "I think I have an idea."

* * *

Christine surveyed her audience as she sang the "Romanza de Marinela" from Serrano's _zarzuela_ "La Cancion del Olvido." _A full house._ Whatever Gloria had done to advertise these concert-recitals had worked. The majority of people she could distinguish seemed to be well-heeled _Barceloneses_ , but there were foreigners attending, too. The Germans and British always sat in exclusive groups away from each other if they could help it, and she could distinguish them by the fashions they wore. She wondered who her contact might be as she launched into her second piece – her own composition, and a long one. She had known it would be a terrible piece even as she wrote it; she knew it was a terrible piece before she began to sing it. The music was drab, and the lyrics were dreadful. Still, the managers always permitted her to add musical pieces she composed to the performances without argument. It seemed that Gloria, or somebody, had paved the way for her with the Teatro Victoria management. The two managers were so in love with money that their cooperation was probably an easy thing to buy.

An involuntary glance into the wings as she finished revealed Carlotta, elbows akimbo and a broad grin on her face, as she witnessed her rival's fiasco. The applause she received was polite, and Carlotta took the stage she abandoned in a cloud of silk chiffon, expensive perfume, and hauteur.

Christine's dressing room was not in a choice location within the theater. She had to wend her way through the half-lit recesses of the backstage area towards the rear of the theater, where a dusty hallway awaited. When Carlotta had arrived at the Teatro Victoria last year, fresh on the wings of Franco's victory, she had been instrumental in banishing Christine to this hallway, as well as to secondary roles. The Italian diva had not been able to gather enough evidence against Christine to accuse her of political subversion, but she had done whatever she could to humiliate her. The dressing room was a constant reminder of her fall from grace.

Halfway through the shadows backstage, she halted in surprise. Somebody had moved Klingsor's mirror from the theater's production of "Parsifal" to the back of the theater. It was a large, impressive mirror about 10 feet tall, and Christine wondered whether it had not been placed in storage with the rest of the props because its size presented a problem. She glanced at her image in the mirror, then stared at it. Against the surrounding penumbra, her reflected image burned like a light. She had suspended mourning for tonight's concert, and her evening dress was of a simple cut in palest grey satin which left her shoulders bare. Her loose hair cascaded over her down her back in golden waves, and she looked at her figure in surprise. The mirror revealed how much weight she had gained in the past several weeks, thanks to her new source of income. Her figure was svelte as a gazelle's, but there was now a graceful amount of flesh on her frame. Her eyes moved to something floating in the reflected darkness above and behind her, trying to focus. Twin flames? Her breath caught in her throat. They were eyes, feral eyes, the eyes of a demon from a nightmare. She turned to flee and immediately fell through the floor.


	4. Chapter 4

**The cover design for this story is the work of Inkblottales (** ** _The Chain Unbroken)_** **, and I'm so grateful for her talent. She also did the cover for our book** ** _The Falconer_** **. Her FFNet avatar has a hypnotic quality to it, I find - I end up staring at it for long moments and kind of humming to myself. It's a watercolor of Erik in half-shadow, but I can't describe all that she says about Erik via that startling image. The dark is so dark. The light is so light!**

 **Anyhow, the cover design for Tightrope features the flag that flew over Spain during Franco's dictatorship, with the imperial eagle holding the yoke and arrows (symbols of Ferdinand and Isabella). The flag of the Second Republic was red, gold, and purple. That's the reason for the purple background: the color that was lost.**

 **Many thanks, as always, to those who have given me feedback.**

* * *

 _According to the March [2007] edition of the history magazine_ Sàpiens _, Nazi Germany's secret service had more than 500 spies and collaborators in Catalonia alone...the Nazis of Barcelona held liberal professions such as commercial agents, engineers, doctors, reserve officers, journalists, analysts, artists and historians, and they had been living in Catalonia for years or had arrived in 1939, with the aureola of the heroes of the Condor Legion, decisive in Franco's victory in the Spanish civil war._

– La Vanguardia _, February 25, 2007_

The hand on her forehead was cool, but it was gone as soon as she opened her eyes. Shadows played on the ornate plasterwork on the ceiling, and she rose slightly, supporting herself on her elbows to examine her surroundings: rosewood paneling, a mahogany desk, several chairs upholstered in red and gold damask, and a grand piano. She herself was on a red velvet divan. She looked towards the shadows behind the massive desk, and as her eyes adjusted to the gloom, the figure of a man slowly emerged. His eyes, Christine confirmed, did indeed seem incandescent and were fixed steadily on her. His figure was very tall and slender, and he was dressed in formal black – including, alarmingly, a black mask which covered the left half of his face.

"I apologize, Christine, for the shock I have undoubtedly given you." His voice was rich and smooth, beautiful in an ethereal way that nearly removed her terror of him entirely. Christine decided that he must be Spanish, and very well educated – his accent was crisp and perfectly Salamancan, the most polished of the Spanish language. She had obviously been abducted by a rather sophisticated criminal. In a flash of personal darkness, she thought that at least he would not bludgeon her to death – no, he would likely stab her with a silver dagger, murder was much more elegant that way.

"I assure you that I would never do anything to harm you," he continued, as though reading her thoughts.

"Why am I here, then?" she interrupted quickly.

"You are here because your activity as a double agent has placed you in danger. I have brought you here for your own protection."

"Double agent?" Christine mustered a tone of innocent confusion, hoping that the man was bluffing.

She could see the shadow of a smile play about the man's mouth, and his luminous eyes seemed to brighten more in amusement. It rendered him even more frightening to behold. "I know all about your Miss Munroe now, and I am working on identifying her network of informants. I have been following you for several weeks now. I have also kept careful track of the information you have been giving to the very ineffective Gonzalo Fernández. Very paltry stuff! If he were not so mesmerized by the charms his young lady dangles before him, he might have noticed you are now doling out information with an eyedropper. Yet you are still working as an informant for Franco and Hitler and being paid as such. An informant for the Axis, a spy for the Allies...yes, my dear, a _double agent_."

Christine's mouth was suddenly dry. She had been nothing more than an instrument used to expose Gloria Munroe, and this from the very first! She bolted up from the divan, but her captor raised an imperative hand before she could do anything more.

"I do not intend to harm Miss Munroe, I assure you – I am the only one who knows about her and about you, and I do not intend to act on this knowledge. If it serves as any comfort to you, Gonzalo Fernández has been an object of my suspicion for some time. He has a new mistress and an intense desire to impress her – not a good situation, in his line of work. I really should eliminate him," he mused. Was he serious?

"Oh, I don't think that's…that's necessary," stammered Christine. She thought of Marga with dismay. The only reason Margarita had slept with Fernández in the first place was to obtain information from him. What would happen to her?

"Perhaps you are correct. Perhaps it is unnecessary. That will all depend…but we will get to _that_ later! First I would like to congratulate you, Christine, on your impressive encoding skills – though I find your aptitude for composition sorely lacking. I could teach you a thing or two, however, regarding theory –"

"Excuse me, but I don't know what you mean," said Christine. She felt the sensation of falling through a trapdoor for the second time that evening. She sat at the edge of the divan, trembling.

The man fixed her with a contemplative gaze for several seconds before declaiming in perfect English, "'Antonio Albareda Campmany, agent of the Sicherheitdienst; will be meeting at Ritz on 11/29, with...'"

"Please, stop!" cried Christine. He had just recited much of the encrypted message she had sung that evening at the Victoria, word for word. She heard a roaring in her ears. All the information Marga had gleaned from Fernández, intended only for her English contact – _exposed_!

"Imagine singing in Morse code – each eighth note being a dot, each quarter note a dash…not a bad idea at all, Christine. Better than any they have had thus far." His voice was beautiful, silken, damning.

"Apparently, it _was_ a bad idea," she whispered miserably. Then it struck her – this was the man of whom Gloria had spoken, the one who had been cracking the Allies' codes. "Who are you?"

"My apologies for not having introduced myself, Christine. I am Erik."

* * *

Christine awoke the next morning to the sound of piano music. The sound of Erik's piano had lulled her to sleep the night before, and now she listened to it in wonder once more. She had heard the piano played many times before by accomplished musicians, but none of them could claim the distinction of being Erik's equal.

Erik had apparently carried her to a bedroom after she had fallen asleep. She found with relief that she was still fully clothed, but was lying atop a goose-down comforter on a bed of carved chestnut. She could feel the eiderdown give way luxuriantly under her as she pushed down on it to sit up. Surveying the room, she noted that there were chestnut furnishings and a plush Persian rug, but no windows. There had been none in the study, either, and she concluded that they must be underground somewhere. But where?

A light blue silk robe was draped over the bed's ornate footboard. She gathered it up and explored a bathroom that adjoined her bedroom. Soaps, shampoos, perfumes from north Africa, and all manner of towels and little luxuries were on display. She stepped over to the bathtub and drew a bath. After the ample hot water had soothed her and she felt refreshed, she toweled off and drew the robe over herself. What to do about clothing?

Christine entered the study just as Erik was playing the last bars of a Debussy sarabande. She noticed that he wore a white half-mask today and felt a stab of unease. Why the mask? She had decided that he did not mean to harm her…but was she really correct? He turned to greet her, but whatever he was about to say died on his lips. The unmasked half of his face slowly turned crimson as turbulent eyes surveyed Christine, who looked down at herself quickly. There had been no mirrors in her bedroom, so she had not noticed how closely the silk clung to her body.

"I'm sorry about my dishabille…but I'm not sure what to do about clothing," she said.

"Would you be so kind as to look inside your wardrobe?" he choked, standing up and whirling round quickly so that his back was to her. His breathing seemed labored, and she noticed fleetingly that the shoulders under his starched white shirt were broad.

"Oh…why…thank you."

It had not occurred to her that there might be clothing in her wardrobe, much less specifically for her, and she recoiled in shock when she discovered that this was indeed so – clothing made to her measurements so hastily that there were still traces of chalk near the seams. Yet the dresses and slacks were, Christine recognized, the most haute of couture, worthy of an atelier. And then she noticed the silk stockings and undergarments. It was now her turn to blush. She had become Erik's _fetish_ , that much was clear to her, and she now understood the full extent of his reaction to her state of relative undress a few minutes earlier. She clothed herself hurriedly in a silk blouse and for the first time in her life donned slacks and, pinching her cheeks and squaring her shoulders, went to join Erik.

* * *

Erik presented Christine with several croissants for breakfast, as well as plum marmalade, fresh butter, and coffee. Her disbelief kept her impulse to pounce on the food in check. Finally, she pulled the corner off a croissant and placed it in her mouth with the reverence she usually reserved for a communion wafer. Erik watched her without eating a morsel, and she noted through hooded eyes the somewhat craggy features of the exposed side of his face - the high cheekbone and strong chin. His dark brow was well defined and would frequently arch whenever he expressed sarcasm or irony. His hair was nearly black, and he kept it carefully and precisely cut and slicked back, exposing a slight widow's peak. Now that she had lost most of her terror of him, Christine grudgingly decided that he was a handsome man. As she observed him, she did not stop formulating questions for him within her mind.

"Could you at least tell me whether we're still in Barcelona?" she finally inquired.

"We are."

"How can you get such food in the city? Everyone's starving except people living out in the country. Not even the black market could provide a person with what you have on your table."

"Do you like it? There are better things, far better…but I am well aware that you have only recently become acquainted with the black market since the sudden and remarkable improvement in your economic situation." Here the corners of his mouth lifted slightly and his visible brow arched upward. "You do not know of the goods that are made available to the Germans here, and to those well positioned within the Regime."

"Are you German?"

"I have no country."

Christine stared at Erik. Some emotion stirred within the depths of his eyes, which were golden in the brighter light of his salon, and he leaned forward. "You have no country, either, do you? No – yours was taken away from you."

"Who are you working for?"

"For myself. For you, now, if you would permit me." His tone was soft - his eyes, cautious.

Christine ignored what he was implying and forced her mind forward along her own track.

"I must return to my flat. There is someone who depends on me there. If you would please –"

"Mrs. Valerio will be well, and she has received a message that you are visiting a friend. The maid you recently hired – Paqui, is it? – will care for her during the time you are here."

" _The time I'm here?_ Excuse me, but what do you mean by that? How long do you plan to keep me here? You said I'm in danger - of _what_?" Christine tried to keep the panic from her voice.

He did not stand up very suddenly, but she started when he rose to his feet nonetheless. His height and figure were intimidating, even as he began to pace. He appeared to be considering his next words.

"You are currently working for the British and the Americans. In a place like this, that in itself is dangerous. Do you have the faintest idea what could become of you should you commit an error? Do you think the Allies would lift a finger to rescue you? You are nothing to them. Spain is nothing to them. Did they do anything to rescue the Republic when Franco betrayed it? No; they did not even permit the Republic to buy arms to protect itself. They much prefer a fascist dictatorship in Spain to a duly elected National Front government. It rather suits their purpose, except for one nagging problem: Franco's abject gratitude to Hitler and Mussolini.

"Spain is a subaltern state, now at the service of the Germans. You and all of Barcelona are witness to this. How do you think you can escape if you are exposed, even if you make it to France? The Spanish who escaped to the French concentration camps beyond the Pyrenees perhaps thought they were safe, but now the Vichy government is helping Franco to catch and bring back anyone he pleases. What, you might ask, has become of Lluis Companys, who so lately was the president of Catalonia? He was arrested by the Gestapo in Brittany, sent back to Spain, tortured, condemned by the usual kangaroo court, and executed by firing squad last week! Why, he is as dead as his Statute of Catalonian Autonomy!"

"Stop! Please stop!" Christine managed to keep the tears from falling, but they trembled in her voice. " _Why_ are you acting as if you care what happens to me? And why does it matter? I'm not important!"

Erik stood perfectly still, his mouth open in shock and chagrin. "Forgive me," he murmured, then, and he seemed so serious that Christine nodded quickly. His habitually cool demeanor returned, he resumed his pacing and continued, "You ask why one should care what becomes of you, and I shall tell you, Christine…" here he hesitated. "I am a musician, as you know. Your voice…is one of the finest instruments I have ever heard. It has the potential to become a great voice, easily one of the greatest – _if it is trained_. It would be a shame if such potential were to be lost because of some silly intrigues which, at the end of a turbulent decade, will have been forgotten."

Christine looked at him in astonishment. Erik stopped his pacing and faced her resolutely.

"You shall stay here, with me, for some days, so that I can begin to train you. Once you have adapted to my methods and it is clear to me you are willing to adhere to my rules, you may return to your flat. As for your activities as an agent –"

"I can't just stop being an agent! Gonzalo Fernández will let people know if I don't cooperate with the Regime, even if I disappoint Gloria, which I just won't do!"

Erik lifted a spidery hand. "You need not worry on that account. I have considered what to do about that situation, and not only will I not expose you to my…associates…but I will help you. You will be under my tutelage and my protection, but in return I expect your absolute and unquestioning obedience. You will not make a single move, nor will you disseminate a single syllable of any message, in any language, to any contact, without my knowledge. Do you understand?"

Christine supposed that she understood. She considered the possibility that Erik might be toying with her, but assumed that she was helpless to do anything if that were the case anyway. She was here with him in a home that appeared to be underground, in a location undisclosed to her, and she had not seen a single door which could lead her outside to safety or freedom. She would wait and see what lay ahead, then act when necessary. Her thoughts strayed to the cyanide pill she had stitched into the hem of her gray evening gown, now in the wardrobe. Finally, she nodded.


	5. Chapter 5

**Many thanks to all those who have given me feedback - I appreciate the time and trouble you've taken. I'm most grateful to you kind anonymous reviewers as well - alejandra, SandyHurst, MissPhan and all other guest reviewers. Virtual hugs to all! :)**

* * *

 _"Gerardo, people can die from an excessive dose of the truth, you know." – Ariel Dorfman,_ Death and the Maiden

Erik was a madman, Christine concluded, as well as a genius. The combination frightened her. Why was he so obsessed with her _voice_?

"These vocalises will do for us now – mind your posture. Do not try to project much, not at this stage…" During many of their music lessons, Christine had the sensation that he was starting at the beginning with her. At first, she had felt a twinge of resentment, but he was unerringly right when he corrected her bad habits.

His golden eyes were always on her as he circled, correcting errors. His hands, she discovered, were cool when he touched her, as he often did. She tried to ignore the fire that he transmitted to her with his light touch. She had been without a man's touch for too long, she concluded, and she tried her best to think of Raoul. Still, she watched his skeletal hands with fascination whenever he played the piano. They had a grace she had never dreamed possible. His entire person possessed an elegance, an efficiency of movement, that she had never seen in a human being before. There was also something supernatural about his ability to walk as silently as a cat, often surprising her as she read.

In fact, Christine read hungrily. The books contained in Erik's study were so numerous they no longer fit on his shelves; many were stacked on the floor. They had not passed through the scourge of censorship. They contained novels and poetry in Spanish and in other languages, academic works, and even an ancient medical treatise or two in Latin. Little by little, Christine found herself relaxing, which was a novelty after the past four years of war and hunger she had weathered. As strange as her situation was, she felt a new kind of peace. She slept well at night, and her sleep was dreamless, no longer haunted by the nightmares of hunger and need that had plagued her before. She did not trouble herself with the world outside Erik's underground refuge. What good could her worrying do anyone now?

* * *

On the eighth day of her captivity, Christine entered the study in tears. Erik, who had been standing with his back to her, turned to regard her with an expression of alarm.

"My wedding ring's missing! I never take it off, but this morning it was gone!" She wrung her hands and nearly wailed, then abandoned herself completely and sank to the floor, sobbing. "I've never taken it off… _never_ …"

Erik's tentative hand on her head calmed her. He seemed to gain confidence and stroked her hair gently. His voice was soothing. "Look at me, Christine."

She obeyed, looking into his face with eyes that swam with tears. She had nearly summoned up the courage to ask the inevitable question: "Did you take my ring?" But before she could utter a syllable of it, Erik began to sing in a low voice. His eyes seemed to fill her field of vision, and she felt suddenly light, as if she were floating. All she cared about was the sublime voice.

Something cold touched her hand once the music had ended, and she felt the weight of a new ring on her wedding finger before she looked down and saw it glinting gold. It was a slightly thicker band than Raoul's, and weighed more heavily on her finger, but it was unmistakeably a wedding band.

Something like a sigh hung in the air, and she saw Erik hovering over her, his eyes intense. "Wear this ring, Christine, and never take it off. As long as you wear it, you will have my protection. You _need_ my protection."

The figure of her husband suddenly invaded Christine's mind: Raoul laughing, the sun shining on his fair hair on their wedding day; Raoul dancing with her during carnaval; Raoul in his uniform, determined to fight for the Republic and democracy. His older brother, Philippe, had been appalled when people began calling Raoul the "vizconde rojo" – the "Red viscount," labeling him a communist. Before all this, they had shared so many days together, yet in reality so few. Where was he now? Indeed, where was _she_?

* * *

Christine awoke from her nap like a swimmer breaching the surface of a lake. She lifted her hand tentatively and looked at the ring, which glinted at her heavily. It was definitely a wedding ring. Yet she hardly knew the man who had slipped it onto her finger. As she drowsed, her thoughts lingered on his mask. Erik continued to wear a half-mask whenever she saw him, generally favoring the white kidskin mask over the black one, and she had never questioned him about it. Some tacit threat in those smoldering eyes kept her from approaching the subject, and she wondered whether he hid some distinctive piece of his identity under that kidskin shield. Perhaps a unique scar? She knew that some Germans took pride in the sword-scars they bore from duels of honor. She had once seen a Nazi officer with dueling scars on his left cheek at one of the Victoria's receptions, and she had tried her best not to stare. He had not looked anything like Erik, though.

The music of Erik's piano could be heard from the study, and she got out of bed and padded quietly to where he was. He was immersed in a melody she had never heard before. She noticed that, for the first time, he showed no sign he was aware of her presence. She took careful steps across the rug to stand directly behind him, reveling at the novelty of observing him without being observed. Curiosity suddenly overwhelmed her; she knew if she was ever going to discover what Erik was hiding behind the mask, whether it was his identity or some scar, now was the moment. Her hand hovered forward and up, then retreated. She took a silent breath, gathered her courage, and her hand shot forward, seizing his mask and pulling it free of his face.

She had seen people blown to bits following the worst bombing raids of 1938. She had seen blood and gore in all its forms, but she was still not prepared for the horror that was his face. The smell of blood, of death, seemed to emanate from the mask in her hand as well as the rotten mass of grayish flesh that she had exposed.

Erik had whirled around to face her and advanced slowly as she retreated, backing up until she felt the wallpaper against her spine. She noted that half of his nose was missing, and the cavity where it should have been gaped next to exposed cartilage. His left eye receded into a dark socket but seemed alight with an infernal fire.

"You wished to see _this_?" he hissed, gesturing towards his exposed flesh. "Do you wish to observe it more closely…perhaps touch it?" He wrenched her hand up to his cold flesh and forced her fingertips to press inward.

She shook her head and tried to pull her hand back. "Please, Erik…I'm sorry! I thought you were hiding your _identity_ from me, not…not…"

"…Not this horror? But this is truly what I am! I assure you that I am made up of death, from head to toe!" His voice had gradually risen to a terrifying boom, and his hands now clamped down on her arms. "Come, my dear, it's time you saw my bedroom!"

 _His bedroom?_ He half-pushed, half-carried Christine through the study to the hallway and kicked open the door at the end of it. She sobbed hysterically, cursing her prying hands, and barely focused on the dark room and its furnishings. Erik shook her. "Look!"

Her eyes had adjusted to the dim lighting in the bedroom, and she could see raised red lettering along the black wall in a macabre burlesque of a decorative motif: _Respice post te! Hominem te esse memento!_ But the thing that most terrified her was the coffin in the middle of the room. It was black as ebony, and carved into the surface of its top, in life-sized relief, was the figure of Erik in death – _no_ , she reminded herself, not in death but simply without his mask. Every whorl of his deformity had been rendered in painful detail, as had the folds of his formal clothing.

"Have you ever heard of a _memento mori_ , my pet? _Answer me!_ Have you?"

Christine managed to nod. "The…the conquering caesars had someone to remind them of their…their mortality when…when they went on parade in Rome," she choked between sobs.

"Excellent. These servants would whisper, ' _Respice post te! Hominem te esse memento!'_ into their ears: 'Look behind you! Remember that you are merely a man!' Even Caesar is mortal, but he must be reminded of it. Well, I, Christine, need not remind myself of death, as you can see. I am the living _memento mori_ , and nobody who sees me can ever forget that death is close at hand!" His voice had risen to a shriek, but it terminated in a sob. "This coffin is fitting, don't you think? I sleep within it – whenever I can sleep, because as you know death rarely takes a break!" At this final sob, he sank to his knees. "Poor Christine, my poor Christine! Now that you have seen me, you are doomed to stay with me forever…"

Christine fled the room.

The piano music had gone on for hours. Christine had seen the staff paper filled with Erik's hastily-scribbled notation, and she knew that this music – at turns angry, at turns tortured, at turns relentlessly sad – was his. She had thought the past four years had stolen her ability to feel, but now Erik raked that idea over the coals with his diabolical music. She felt possessed by his torment, and her face was wet with tears, but her mind resented this invasion. Above all, she wished to leave his home and resume – what? Whatever her life had become? She decided that she wanted to live after all. She closed the door to the wardrobe, leaving the hidden poison pill for perhaps some other time. She would do whatever was necessary to escape Erik.

The music had become calmer and filled with terrible sadness, but an ineffable beauty. Christine entered the study quietly, her feet bare and head bent. Her hair, which she had worn pinned up until now, was loose; its waves cascaded over her shoulders like a veil. She perched carefully on the armchair. The music stopped, but Erik did not move. She saw that he now wore his mask again.

"Your music…is the greatest I've ever heard, Erik. Forgive me for what I did. Please. I had no idea…but you must know that your genius transcends _everything_ else about you."

"My _genius_ …yes. Most comforting," he replied quietly. He turned to look at her, and his eyes held such sorrow that her heart constricted.

"You don't have to wear your mask around me. I don't care what you look like. I only care what you mean to me." It had the bitter feeling of a lie to her.

He rose suddenly and strode over to her, bending down to look into her eyes. An eternity seemed to pass. Christine held her breath. "What _I_ …mean to _you_ ," he finally repeated, his tone flat. His hand hovered over her face indecisively, then he stroked her cheek with a cool forefinger. His face twisted into a grimace of rage and pain, then, and he seized a side chair with one hand and flung it across the room as if it were a discus. It crashed into the wall and splintered, and Erik stalked out of the room, leaving Christine alone.

* * *

Frustration darkened José Luis Oscuro's features as he strode through the Gran Teatro Victoria. He _knew_ he had seen admiration on Deschamps' countenance that night at the opera, but he did not know how to find out which actress had been the object of the man's attention. He was not accustomed to interrogating women, especially regarding possible admirers. He put a finger under his collar, trying to loosen his tie. He was sweating profusely. He had just visited the flat where several of the chorus girls lived, sharing expenses, and he could still hear their giggles. They had _flirted_ with him! He reddened just thinking about it, but the thought was actually pleasurable. As a dirt-poor, rather awkward young man in Zaragoza, he had had little luck with women. Now that he was with Franco's police – ostensibly, a captain with the Guardia Civil, though actually in the secret police – he had become highly eligible for matrimony. The mothers of young ladies of good breeding now sent him invitations to parties and other social events. He had actually danced with some of these daughters under their mothers' watchful eyes. It was generally known that his future with the Regime was expected to be a good one. He might even abandon the whores he favored in the El Raval district, famished creatures who sold themselves for little more than food. The thought of the chorus girls stirred him. What if he were to take a lover, as Gonzalo had? The thought was suddenly attractive.

By the time Oscuro arrived at Margarita's dressing room, his reflections on his prospects had buoyed his mood considerably. The door opened before he knocked, and Margarita appeared in her ballet slippers and leg warmers. Her startled look was quickly followed by a polite smile.

"Oh, Captain Oscuro…you must be looking for Gonzalo?"

"No, Señorita Marga, I'm here because I'd like to ask you a couple of questions, if you don't mind…" His practiced eye did not miss the fact that she blanched and that her smile quivered slightly. Before he could interpret her reaction, Gonzalo Fernández's voice interrupted him from somewhere behind Margarita.

"José Luis! Are you trying to make time with my Marga now? Go find yourself a ballerina of your own!" The door opened completely, and Gonzalo emerged, straightening his tie.

"I really need to go to rehearsal now," Marga inserted, moving to get past Oscuro.

"Go on, then, _querida_ – José Luis can talk with you later if he needs to. What's this all about?" Fernández turned to look at Oscuro once Margarita had left. "Can't a man enjoy the company of a lady without being interrupted these days?"

Oscuro straightened and lifted his chin in irritation. He knew that, for all his smooth manners with young women, Fernández lived in mortal fear of his mother and spent all the time he could in Marga's dressing room to avoid her. It was true that the man was having an affair with Margarita the lovely ballerina, but it was not one made up entirely of passion. _Two parts passion and one part cowardice, maybe?_

Clearing his throat, Oscuro addressed the reason for his visit. "It's actually a good thing that I found you here, Gonzalo. I have reason to believe that Deschamps might have taken a lover, and that she is one of those Flower-maidens from that Wagner opera. I just don't know which one it could be. You know how dangerous for us it could be if Deschamps were to give anything away to some silly actress who can't keep her mouth shut. I've been asking every chorus girl I can find whether they've heard of someone's taking a new lover…"

"Well, _Margarita_ certainly hasn't taken a new lover! Are you sure you're talking about Deschamps, José Luis? _Deschamps_? That man isn't even human! I can't imagine what gives you the idea that he might take a lover – what a mad idea!"

"I'm sure of it, Gonzalo – and you know my track record when it comes to being sure of things."

Fernández was silent. Oscuro's instinct about people was impeccable. So far, he had never been wrong.

"It could be disastrous if Deschamps were to take the wrong lover. We've never been sure of his loyalties," Fernández finally said.

"Because he has none!" Oscuro snapped.

"And he's dangerous, very dangerous indeed. At least you've narrowed his interest down to one of the chorus girls. Hmmmm…." A sudden thought seemed to have struck Fernández.

"What?"

"Christine Daaé has been missing for the past week or so. But it's probably not her. She's a shrinking violet."

"Is she? Describe her."

"Blonde, Scandinavian, good-looking. Marga says she's one of the best musicians among the singers, though. But I don't think –"

"It's her. I'm sure of it," said Oscuro suddenly. Never had he had a stronger hunch. _A good musician._

"Well, that's good news, then!" exclaimed Fernández. "As you know, she's working for us gathering information. She reports to me weekly. No conflict there at all. In fact, she could be even more useful if she could keep Deschamps in line somehow. We won't tell her what we suspect, of course, but do your best to confirm that she's really involved with Deschamps."

Oscuro nodded, but his thoughts were miles away. So… _Christine Daaé_.


	6. Chapter 6

**As always, many thanks to those who have given feedback.  
**

* * *

 _Montjuic is a mountain that offers unaccountable surprises. It's no exaggeration to conclude that it constitutes an entire world...and one of its aspects is, of course, its tunnels._

 _– Lluis Permanyer,_ La Vanguardia _, May 2, 2014_

"Would you care to take a ride with me? We could see some of the city, if you would like."

Christine looked up from her novel in surprise. Erik's offer followed three days of polite tension that had ensued after her unmasking of him. She had been certain he would never again let her see the light of day, and she did her best to conceal her enthusiasm. "I would love to go out with you."

As she fetched a sweater, she considered her possibilities. Several days ago, she would have thought of escape, but now she realized escaping Erik was impossible. She had spent enough time with him to fully understand that.

The door he opened for her had been so cleverly camouflaged as to be invisible, and it gave way to absolute darkness. Erik trained a lantern directly ahead of them, and the sandstone sides of a tunnel appeared. He extended a hand, which Christine accepted instinctively. "Watch your step."

The tunnel twisted and turned, bifurcating in places, and seemed to go on for kilometers. Erik's step was sure, but Christine nearly stumbled twice. He steadied her gently. In the darkness, his glowing eyes were oddly comforting and reassuring. Finally, the tunnel widened into a broad gallery with a vaulted ceiling. They passed smaller tunnels which intersected it at regular intervals, and Christine turned an inquisitive look on Erik which she was sure he could not see in the dark. She was startled when he explained.

"The more irregular tunnels we have traveled here are ancient. Some of them date back eons, to the Paleolithic. This construction – this gallery – is more recent and was built during the Spanish-American War. These tunnels once connected munitions chambers, as there was a garrison established in the castle above us. More recently, this place was used by civilians as a bomb shelter."

Christine's stomach churned with an unpleasant realization, and she could hardly breathe. "We're under Montjuic Castle!"

Montjuic was a promontory that owed its name to a Jewish cemetery established on its heights long before the Jews were expelled from Spain in 1492. Montjuic, the "Mountain of the Jews," reigned over Barcelona from the southwest, affording a panoramic view of the city to excursionists. Yet it was the thought of the castle crowning the heights above them that now caused Christine to shiver uncontrollably. Montjuic, where Companys had been tortured and executed…Montjuic, now a prison housing Republicans loyal to democracy and Catalonian nationalists who awaited their final sentence. On the other side of the mountain was the Cementir del Sudoest, the cemetery where the bodies of executed prisoners were carried by the truckload, dumped into a mass grave, and covered with quicklime. Visions of Raoul assaulted her – condemned to death, shot by firing squad, his lifeless blue eyes staring without focus towards the heavens.

Erik's voice calling her name brought her back to herself. He hovered over her, and she realized he supported her about the waist with a trembling arm. The white half-mask he wore seemed luminous in the half-light.

"You are faint," he asserted quietly. In the shadows, his eyes burned into hers inquiringly, and there was some other emotion in their depths that Christine could not name. During her time in Erik's home, their conversation had been largely limited to music and books. He seemed to know about her life – about her father, about Mamá Valerio, and her career at the Gran Victoria. Did he know about Raoul? He had never brought him up.

"I'm better now," she said. "But could you please tell me how you came to live within Montjuic? You've told me so little about yourself." _And I haven't dared to ask. Until now._

He shrugged gracefully and led her down a side tunnel, away from the gallery. "I am not interested in living someplace where I can be found, and I encountered a chamber in the tunnels large and uniform enough to accommodate plaster, paint, and a bit of furniture. Come, here is the door." Faint light shone through a keyhole, and Erik turned a key, ushering Christine out a door that was concealed by ivy. She turned from the stone containment wall to breathe in the twilight air deeply, enjoying the salty breeze coming from the direction of the port. Erik led her down a path which turned in to the Passeig de Ferrer i Guarda, where a Mercedes Benz was parked, its long hood gleaming in the waning light. When he had opened the passenger door and she was seated, she found that she was locked in; the lock appeared to be jammed and would not pull up. She sighed as Erik glided into the driver's seat. He glanced at her, lifting his brow pointedly, and she folded her hands on her lap in resignation. As he started the car and shifted it smoothly into motion, he turned the conversation to another subject.

"I regret that the first time I heard you sing was only weeks ago, but I fully intend to make up for the time lost. You have been singing with the Gran Teatro Victoria since you were eighteen, I believe?" Erik engaged the clutch smoothly and the engine purred into gear. As they traveled up the Carrer de Cabanas, more people could be seen out on the street, and they stopped and stared as the car went by.

"Yes, I auditioned for a position with the chorus at the Victoria and was accepted. That was back in the times of the Republic when the CNT union was running things, you know, and all the theaters were collectivized. Even the Liceo became the National Theater of Catalonia when it was expropriated. They were assigned operettas to perform. And, as luck would have it, we at the Victoria were assigned lots of light musical comedy – lots of _zarzuelas_. I went gradually from being in the chorus to more primary roles. And the pay wasn't bad – the committee always divided the profits equally among the artists, and I was guaranteed at least 105 pesetas per week. Now, though…"

"You needn't worry about now. I am your _now_ ," Erik inserted smoothly.

Christine tried to ignore what he implied. "It was a good time, in a way, even though the war had begun. We were treated with respect. Scalping, claque, tipping, free entry…all those were prohibited. People were free to speak Catalan in public, and everyone was calling each other 'comrade.' Then, the Nationals won the war, and half the Victoria's artists – the best half – left for France or Mexico. The managers came and brought Carlotta with them, and I think she's bringing claque back, in her own way. There is a group of people who always applaud her, and it's the same group that boos me whenever I sing. They made so much noise when I sang the habanera as Maria Jesus in 'La Boda de Luis Alonso' that I was never permitted to sing the role again! But these past weeks there have been recitals, and for some reason, there has been no hissing or noise…" A sudden realization seized Christine as she looked at Erik, who was smiling to himself. " _You?_ "

His smile became a malicious grin. "I could never tolerate such an uproar, my dear; stopping it was not difficult. Signora Carlotta's days as the prima donna at the Victoria are numbered."

Christine stared at him and placed her hands on her head in vexation. "How…? I thought you were working for the Germans - and maybe the Italians, too. Why are you bothering at all with the Victoria's petty politics? And why on earth are you offering to help me with my work for the Americans?"

They had been traveling westward, and Christine could see the Parque de la Ciudadela, where the Catalonian parliament had been. The chambers that had held the legislature had been pointedly sealed off with concrete by the Regime, as if they were tombs. As they neared the building, she sighed. Nazi banners bearing swastikas billowed large from the parapets.

Erik's voice reclaimed Christine's attention. "I have told you that I work only for myself. The Nazis flatter themselves that I am theirs. Even Reza Shah thought I was loyal only to him back when I helped with his modernization program in Iran! They all think that their money can buy _me_."

"So, you don't mind helping out the Allies simply because you're _perverse_?" Christine interjected impatiently.

"You will find that there is method to my madness. Hitler has been ruined by his own success; now his ambition is without limit. He wishes to subdue the Slavs next, which means sooner or later he will be at war with the Soviet Union. That is one front he is certainly destined to lose."

"Hitler and Stalin are allies!"

"And we will have _peace for our time_ as well," Erik replied mockingly. "Trust my judgment. I know when the time has come to turn my coat. The Allies are a better bet in the long term."

"You don't care who wins this war!"

"It doesn't matter who wins a war, my dear innocent. The same kind of people suffer on one side as the other, and they are generally civilians. They are the hostages in the games played by powerful men. Tell me, did you or your guardian do anything that deserved the penalty you paid? Do you _deserve_ poverty and starvation? Well, you are no longer starving, at any rate. Good! The hungry times are far from over…"

"It _did_ matter who won, it _did_!" Christine cried. "Look what Franco has done to us – the prisons are full of people who are guilty only of loyalty to their elected government. They're being killed by the dozens by firing squad every day! He invaded Catalonia, he brought in the Germans, the Italians, even Moroccan troops! You don't know what the bombings were like, you don't know! They killed _children_!" She choked on her own tears and squeezed her eyes shut to keep them from falling.

Erik applied the brake and pulled to the side of the street. She felt his cool hand on her forehead. His voice was quiet. "Forgive me. Would you please tell me about it?"

She shook her head. Any sound she made would have been in tears, not words.

His voice was nearly a whisper now. "I will assist the Allies – through you – because, Christine, we might well need their help in getting you out of this country."

Her head whipped up and she stared at him, her eyes still swimming. "No! I won't leave here!"

"Do you think I will permit a gift like yours to languish in the backwater dictatorship Spain has become? I will continue to train your voice, of course. The best place for you would be New York. Once the war is over –"

"You yourself say the Allies will win. Things will get better for this country, you'll see – they'll never permit Franco to stay in power, it would be like keeping Hitler in power!"

Erik straightened and quickly got out of the car. A strong breeze, hinting of the coming winter, blew into the car as Christine's door was opened. She accepted the hand Erik proffered, but he pulled her up and drew her to himself with a roughness that was surprising. He smelled of starch and, more vaguely, of incense, and the planes of his body were muscular and unyielding. Alarm bells rang… _Raoul_! She struggled against him, but his grip was like iron.

"Do you think I would permit you to stay here? A place in which, any day, someone like Carlotta - but with a little more information than she - might have you arrested? The baggage you carry is heavy indeed. Your father was in the International Brigades – yes, I know he was only a musician, but do you think that will matter if your enemies are more powerful than your friends? So far, you have kept an admirably low profile, so nobody has made a thorough inquiry into your past. What happens when you rise to prominence? Do you think that Carlotta will be content to stand by and cheer you on?"

Erik paused, and Christine took the opportunity to survey her surroundings. The street was deserted. Beyond the gloom of the ruin of a house, a full moon illuminated the sea. A cloud slowly covered it, plunging the street into darkness. Erik's eyes were all she could see, and they were fixed on her with some turbulent emotion.

"…Then there is the question of your so-called _husband_ ," he hissed. "And, yes, I know all about _him_."

* * *

The cloud moved eastward, and the moon shone on them once more. Christine glared at Erik, and he permitted her to wrench herself away from his grip.

"I do indeed have a husband, as you know, who I love very much," she said firmly.

"And _where_ , exactly, is he now?" Venom dripped from Erik's voice.

"Maybe _you_ know. You seem to know everything else! Raoul loves me and will return to me whenever he can."

"Won't that be pleasant? The Red Viscount, who fought with the Fifteenth International Brigade at Ebro, friendly with Andre Marty, the Butcher of Albacete...Why, his return to Spain should be absolutely _delightful_ to the local authorities! I imagine they might organize a parade, a military one, of course…"

"He will come to me! And if you don't say anything to give us away, we'll leave the country as discreetly as you might wish. You wanted me to leave the country, right? He'll take us away, he'll take us to Paris!" Her voice sounded shrill, even to her own ears.

"Paris? _Occupied_ Paris? The Gestapo is looking for the dashing Vicomte de Chagny all over France, which is where he is fighting quite valiantly for the Resistance."

"The Resistance? He's fighting for the Resistance now?" Christine asked eagerly.

"The fool abandoned you – _you! –_ to participate in a military adventure. He should be shot! If he were to come anywhere near you, I would certainly be happy to do it!" Erik's voice was a whiplash. His hand went to the pocket of his coat as if he were assuring himself, reflexively, that there was still some weapon there.

"Raoul's a hero, and I love him for it! We both agreed when the military rose up in arms against the Republic that he would defend it, that he would defend our ideals!"

"He was a fool to leave you, no matter what the cause. It was his sacred responsibility to defend _you_. He left you to care for an elderly woman on top of it all. Did the imbecile ever care that you starved? Did he care when you faced last winter, the coldest in memory, without heating oil? Did he care about the dangers to which he left you exposed, many of which _have no name_ , they are so vile? Why, he forfeited _you_ the very moment he left your side!" His voice had risen to a roar, and Christine looked about her nervously now.

"You will not even think about him. You do not know him. He no longer exists. It is all undone. You will depend entirely on me, do you understand?" His voice was calmer, but his eyes blazed down at her.

It dawned on Christine that Erik might be very dangerous to Raoul if she refused to cooperate. She reluctantly nodded. Raoul would have enough time to come back and find her. She would make sure of it somehow, no matter what Erik did.


	7. Chapter 7

**Blessings and graces to all those kind folks who've given me feedback for this story. Thank you so very much! :)**

* * *

 _"Catalonian dogs! You're not worthy of the sun that shines upon you!"_

 _– Colonel Antonio Aymat, military governor of Barcelona, 1939_

Erik surprised Christine by relenting in his decision to keep her imprisoned under Montjuic. He allowed her to return home two days after their excursion through the city.

"You are free to return to your guardian," Erik had said, "but with one caveat: know that I will be watching you, and that I am everywhere. You will continue your lessons, and I will require you to visit me whenever possible." How his hot gaze had lingered on her, nearly burning her in its intensity! She shivered, remembering.

"Well, now, tell me about this mysterious friend you were visiting," said Mamá Valerio, breaking through Christine's reverie and bringing her back to the present.

"What would you like to know?" responded Christine, mentally vying for time. Regular meals, medicine, and afternoons spent on the balcony had restored Mamá so completely that Christine hardly knew her now. With great effort, she remembered the woman she had known before the war – the one whose curiosity and sharp tongue made for a formidable character. Mamá was no longer an invalid and was eager to take her place as head of the household once more.

"First of all, you can tell me the gender of this _friend_ – male or female?"

Christine blushed.

"Male, then. That would explain a lot. We've had enough food to give some away from the neighbors lately, and good bread, not that cornbread that's only fit for animals. You've been sleeping with a man to get us provisions!" Mamá's tone was not one of reproach but of sadness.

"No, Mamá, I'm not sleeping with anyone! We have more money because my salary has increased…"

"Bilge! If you're not sleeping with him yet, he expects to be sleeping with you soon. What will you do then? Forget you ever had a husband?" She lowered her voice to a whisper at the last sentence.

The buzz of the doorbell interrupted them, and although Paqui appeared in the sitting-room doorway, Mamá held up an imperious hand and rushed to open the door herself. After a quick look through the peephole, she turned and flattened herself against the door. "It's a priest! What have you done, Christine?"

" _Nothing!_ " mouthed Christine, but she paled nonetheless. Some of their neighbors had been arrested and were still in the Modelo prison thanks to a parish priest who served as an informant.

The doorbell buzzed again, and Mamá yanked open the door. The priest, a tall man in his fifties with green eyes and weathered skin, smiled easily and removed the broad-brimmed _teja_ respectfully. He held a gray cardboard box to his side with his other hand.

"A very good afternoon… Señora Valerio, I believe? I'm Father Efrén Dominguez, and I'm now the parish priest of San José Oriol." He lifted his chin to indicate Christine, who now stood behind Mamá. His smile had disappeared. "Señora Cristina Daaé? Your father and I were friends. I'm here on this sad errand at your father's final request. I'm sorry I wasn't able to come sooner." He held up the box he carried.

Coffee was served, not the usual chicory. When milk was brought out for the coffee, Christine saw the priest's eyebrows rise at such audacious luxury. She lowered her reddened eyes, glad that she now had her sobbing under control. The contents of the box had been scarce – her father's pocket watch, a worn photograph of her mother, and a letter. This was all she had left of her father. She looked at the letter again and sighed. It was a declaration of her father's love for his daughter, filled with dreams for her safety and happiness.

"He took me everywhere with him after my mother died. He was a marvelous violinist, Father…"

"I know. I had the privilege of hearing him, though I regret that his violin was lost."

"Lost?"

"Please do not ask about it," Father Efrén said firmly.

Christine deduced from his tone that the violin was in the hands of her father's executioners, and was silent.

Mamá Valerio glanced at Christine and picked up the conversation. "You say you became close friends with Gustave? We're grateful for the help you have given us, especially with his burial…but…you must know that his political leanings place us in a delicate situation now…"

The priest smiled somewhat wearily. "You needn't worry regarding my discretion. I am your friend. One of my purposes in coming here was to offer any help I can give you, but" – he glanced significantly at the creamer containing the milk – "you seem to be doing very well on your own. Gustave confided in me, you know. He told me that you are married to a young man with rather progressive ideas, Christine?"

Christine's heart stopped, but she decided to trust Father Efrén. "Yes. And Raoul's political leanings do also put us in a 'delicate situation,' as Mamá puts it. We were married when I was eighteen, but I haven't seen him in two years."

"There are no children, then."

Christine blushed. "We had hopes, but none ever came, Father. I don't think I can have children." She thought of Raoul's quiet disappointment with a pang. "It's funny, but Raoul and I met when _we_ were children. My father would travel to wherever he was invited to play, and Raoul and I met at Perros-Guirec, up in Brittany. Years later, he came to hear me at a recital when I was in conservatory here in Barcelona, and we eloped within months."

"I understand his brother, the Comte de Chagny, did not approve?"

"Philippe cut Raoul off and refused me admittance to the family estate; Raoul was furious with him. So I went to work at the Victoria, and we took a quiet little flat here in Barcelona, but then the military revolt against the Republic started. Raoul went to Albacete in October of 1936 to help with the International Brigades, and I came here to live with Mamá again. We're both good Catholics, Father. We just believe that Mola and Franco were traitors to Spain…we believed in the Republic and democracy."

"Shhhh!" said Mamá Valerio, looking around, though nobody was eavesdropping. Paqui had been sent out on a mission to find more coffee.

"I think the windows are well fastened, and nobody can hear her through the door or walls," said the priest, and nodded at Christine encouragingly. "It's terrible that so many conversations these days are in whispers. Please continue."

"Anyway, Raoul had always had sympathies with the Communist party in France. Philippe blamed my influence for Raoul's political views, but I can honestly say he was wrong." The memory of Philippe's words still made her blood run cold. _"What's a de Chagny doing even lying with a murderous Red bitch like her? Surely you could come up with something better, and for just a few francs!"_

Christine inhaled, bringing her thoughts under control as she continued. "I myself believed in the Republic, in universal suffrage, in education for the poor. When Raoul decided to fight, I was terribly unhappy, but at the same time I was proud of him." She looked down at Erik's ring and sighed. Nobody could tell the wedding band was a different one without looking closely. "I started working at the Victoria at about the time Raoul and I married, and I didn't have a wedding band at the time. We'd eloped, you know, and he'd been cut off financially by his brother. He couldn't afford a wedding ring for me, and he didn't want me to buy one for myself..." How it had injured Raoul's vanity when Christine's income had had to support them both! She more than anyone understood why Raoul had chosen to fight. He had his pride, after all. "So the people at the Victoria thought I was unmarried, and I just let them think that. There were risks to being involved in politics. The workers' militias were at odds with the Stalinists, and there was that terrible fighting in May of 1937, you know. It feels like a betrayal of sorts now, but it's a good thing that they didn't learn I'm married – and who I'm married to. Raoul finally brought me my wedding ring when he came back from the front to visit me in 1938. Whenever people asked, I told them that my husband was away at the war and I didn't know what had become of him, which was true enough. There were so many women in the same situation, just trying to get by. When the fascists arrived in Barcelona, there were purges, and many of the artists who didn't flee the Victoria were arrested. I was lucky to escape that, and still am, Father." She shuddered.

"Do you know where your husband is? Perhaps I could be of some use," Father Efrén said.

Christine lowered her voice even more. "I hear he's alive and working for the Resistance in France. That's all I know. Could you help to find him? To tell him I'm well and I miss him? I keep writing to his brother, and Philippe writes back insisting that he knows nothing and has not seen Raoul. Well, of course he knows nothing, with a brother like his. Can you imagine how the Vichy government would take it if Raoul were to appear at the estate? By now, both the Regime here and the Nazis must want Raoul's head. And I'm a liability, Father! Someone…someone _friendly_ found the record of our marriage."

"Who?" asked Mamá Valerio with a quick grimace of fear.

"Don't worry," Father Efrén interjected, "Many of the civil records were lost or stolen, and the Regime makes it a point not to consult the Republican marriage records. It's a matter of principle with them. I'm the first one to say that they've given many new powers and responsibilities to the Church…or restored the old ones, as many say. Franco likes to call his dictatorship 'National-Catholic.' I never could stand the sight of priests and even bishops giving him that one-armed fascist salute, though." He smiled at the ladies, who did not bother to hide their astonishment at his words. "You have trusted me, and I will trust you in return. It's good to be able to speak openly with someone in this day and age. I keep many secrets, but some of them are my own." His face darkened somewhat at this admission, but he continued. "I admit that I was happy when the military uprising against the Second Republic began. You know how chaotic things were in some corners of the country! And I continued to think that at last there would be order as the National troops gained ground. So many priests and nuns were being killed by communists, anarchists, and simple criminals! But then I was assigned to that prison, where I learned the true nature of the fascists. There were good men like your father there, Christine…and there were young women with small children, too. The babies were pulled away from them as their mothers were pushed against the bloody cemetery wall to be shot. I am so tired of hearing the other priests celebrate the deaths of 'atheists'! Your father was a good man - a Protestant, but a good man, and he did not deserve his fate. As a priest and a Christian I am revolted by so many murders, I cannot approve them – but I was needed to administer extreme unction to the murdered. This I always did between the shooting by the firing squad and the coup de grâce." He passed a hand over his face and cupped his chin in his hand, his elbows on his knees. The weight of his memories seemed heavy on him. "I am grateful to have left that, to have been assigned to my parish," he said, finally. "The church of San José Oriol is being restored, as you know, but we are now celebrating Mass in it anyway."

"I remember," said Christine. "It was burned in 1936. So many churches were burned."

"And San Felipe Neri was bombed by the fascists so badly that only the riddled façade remains," added Mamá rather acidly. "Not to mention what happened to the children at the school there when the basement roof caved in…"

"Please!" Father Efrén lifted a hand and rose from the armchair to leave. "Too many terrible memories. We can only hope things will get better. Christine, I will try to make discreet inquiries regarding the exact whereabouts of your husband. I can't promise anything, though."

"I'm grateful for anything you can do, Father."

"And do come by to Mass sometime at San José Oriol, if you can. Both of you."

"We will."

* * *

"Senta? _Me_? You must be joking!" Christine looked at the music that Erik had handed her. She looked again in disbelief – It was indeed Senta's ballad from "The Flying Dutchman."

A glance revealed that Erik was smiling at her expression of astonishment. There was something of tenderness about his amusement, she imagined, but then she dismissed the thought. They were in Christine's dressing room, where Erik had arranged for her to take her lessons. She knew that she was not to tell anyone about him and had wondered fleetingly how he could enter a busy theater like the Victoria unseen – until he had seemingly materialized behind her out of thin air.

"Since the Victoria is on a Wagnerian kick, its next opera is to be 'The Flying Dutchman.' You will be a refreshing Senta after Carlotta's disastrous turn as Kundry." Erik winced at the memory but continued. "You, my dear, are that rarity among sopranos – you are a dramatic coloratura, and you can also do justice to Wagner. The city will be at your feet."

"Carlotta will have me arrested and executed at dawn over this," Christine murmured darkly. "And the managers? What about them?"

"I am on…friendly terms with the managers here," said Erik, waving a spidery hand dismissively. "As for Carlotta, you need not worry about _her_. There were complaints from the Germans in the audience after 'Parsifal.' They could not bear to hear the language of Goethe mangled in such a way and in such a 'bar-room voice,' as one person characterized it."

"She'll just get a language coach to help her clean up her accent and continue as always. And she has the managers on her side."

"I will not permit that harpy to prevail. Trust in me."

"Do I have a choice?"

"No. And now I have yet another piece for you to practice. This one is for your weekly recital, however." Graceful sleight of hand changed a pear Christine had been eating into more sheet music, but its notes were hand-written. She looked at the lyrics: a poem in Italian. The time signature was 4/4. She sight-read, humming rather than reading the Italian, then stopped abruptly.

"This is the message in Morse code for Gloria's contact! But it's beautiful, Erik! How did you manage to write such a lovely piece of…well…encoded message?" She looked up at him, grinning. Her smile faded as she saw the look in his eyes. He took a bite out of her half-eaten pear, his gaze steady and hot on her.

"You'll have to memorize this and burn it. There's more, of course. Continue reading the music."

Christine obeyed, then looked at Erik. "This is about someone called Manfred Katz? This is in addition to the message Gloria gave me to disseminate."

"Exactly. Manfred Katz is receiving money from refugees, mostly Jewish, who he assists in crossing the border into Spain, a presumably safe country. After collecting the money from them, he informs the Gestapo, which also pays him money. With all the money received, Katz is buying tungsten, which he is selling to the Nazis. He is Jewish himself, but the nature of his betrayal does not appear to bother him." Erik smiled humorlessly, his eyes glittering.

"But…how will I explain how I got this information?" Christine sat at her dressing table and fidgeted with a pouf. Her eyes rose to meet Erik's in the mirror as he stood behind her.

He bent down to her ear level and his breath brushed her skin as he whispered. "You may tell her you are receiving information from a new lover. It's not unheard of, is it? You need something that explains your increased income. Wear this at the next recital." He produced a gaudy ruby necklace and Christine felt its cold weight on her neck as he fastened it. His hands remained lightly on her shoulders as both regarded her reflection in the mirror.

"I don't mean to offend you, but this necklace is not only beautiful – it's also perfectly garish," she finally murmured. She looked pale under the rubies. Red was definitely not her color, she decided.

He smiled and straightened. "Exactly. Just the kind of thing a nouveau riche from the new Regime, Franco's _New Spain_ , would give his mistress. People will focus on the gems and speculate on the identity of your lover…not on _you_. Did you really think my taste was that execrable?"

"These rubies are not real, of course. It's impossible."

"They are genuine," snapped Erik. "I can well afford a decent subterfuge."

"I'm sorry I offended you. Could we please discuss this information you've given me on Manfred Katz? Gloria didn't give me this information, and there are going to be questions about it."

"You have initiative, which will make you more valuable to the Allies. You have a lover who is…let's say…generous with information, probably with the Regime or possibly a high-ranking Nazi, but you are not certain. Let your friends Gloria and Margarita enjoy a certain amount of intrigue."


	8. Chapter 8

_In many kitchens, Neolithic gristmills (two attached stone wheels - the bottom one, stationary, and the top one, revolving) reappeared, and would grind whatever scarce grain was available and produce a coarse flour that could be boiled into a stew, or made into a kind of bread. In the town of Fuerte del Rey, in Jaén, the mayor – and local chief of the National Movement – was, at the same time, the only producer of flour in the area. Camilo Arroyo saw the private gristmills as competition, had them seized, and as a method of dissuasion, had a central street paved with them._

 _– Juan Eslava Galán,_ Los años del miedo

Christine left the Victoria in the late afternoon and was preparing to cross the Avenida del Paralelo when she heard Marga calling her name.

"Have coffee with me?" Margarita asked breathlessly when she had caught up with Christine. The autumn chill had reddened the dancer's cheeks and her hat was askew; she hastily buttoned the overcoat she had on. "I know the perfect place."

Christine nodded and placed her hand in the crook of Marga's elbow. They walked in companionable silence down the Paralelo, which was beginning to come alive with activity. Most of Barcelona's theaters, music halls, and cabarets were on this avenue, which divided the Poble Sec on the south from El Raval and El Eixample on the north. Christine had always enjoyed living so close to the Victoria, as she loved the bustle and could walk the few blocks to work in 10 minutes. Marga was leading her past the streetcar tracks, towards the narrow streets and alleyways of El Raval now. They passed a vendor roasting chestnuts, one of the few comestibles in abundance lately; rationing was worse than ever, and winter loomed dark and merciless before the city.

"This is the cafe," murmured Margarita, guiding Christine into a particularly dark, narrow alleyway. " _Bar La Fragata_ ," a sign announced, and a crudely-painted ship with sails billowed graced the wall beside the door. They seated themselves in a corner with their backs against the dark paneling, and Marga nodded to a waiter behind the bar. The pink marble of the table felt cool against Christine's hands.

The waiter, who had been smoking a cigarette that stank of the ubiquitous black tobacco, served watered-down coffee to the women and turned to attend a pregnant woman who had just entered. Nobody else was appeared to be inside the cafe with them, and the shadows of the short autumn afternoon cast a feeling of gloom about the place.

"I've overheard something about you, and I want to know if it's true," said Marga in a low voice without preamble. "Oscuro and Gonzalo were talking. You have a new lover, they say – someone unbelievably important named Deschamps. Tell me, is it true?"

Christine's stomach clenched. "I _do_ have a lover…that much I can tell you," she whispered.

Margarita scowled and was about to speak again, but the door slamming open startled both of them. A man in uniform had just entered, and Christine's heart plunged as she recognized the tricorne hat of a civil guardsman – the dreaded _Guardia Civil_. The waiter and the pregnant woman ceased their conversation and stood staring at the policeman.

"Señora," said the guardsman, towering over her, "I congratulate you on your impending happy event. Now, kindly remove your coat."

The woman's face bore a sheen of perspiration, but she slowly removed her coat. Her figure under the dress was bulky, her form not clearly defined. The guardsman hesitated, then reached out towards her midsection.

"Stop right there!" Marga's voice shrilled. "How dare you! I'll inform Gonzalo Fernández of your outrageous conduct! He's a personal friend of mine!"

The policeman paused and stared at her, gauging the seriousness of her threat. Christine tried to appear faint and fanned herself delicately with her hand, letting her coat collar slip enough to expose part of the ruby necklace which she still wore. " _Essiggurken_!" she sighed, looking distractedly out the window. " _Essiggurken_ " was the only German word she knew, and she hoped that it would have the effect of stopping the guardsman in his tracks, with the help of her foreign appearance and the glint of rubies.

The guardsman bowed slightly. "Pardon the misunderstanding, señoras," he grunted, turned on his heel, and left.

"Where on earth did you get _that_?" Marga pointed at Christine's coat collar, because the necklace had been hurriedly covered up just as quickly as it had appeared.

"Costume…the necklace is a complete fake, and so am I," said Christine quickly, and Margarita looked appeased.

Marga turned to the woman. "Are you well, Maite?" she asked.

"I think I'm about to give birth," responded Maite, as the waiter locked the door.

"Rubén and Maite own this bar, we know each other well," Marga explained to Christine, and both women watched as Maite shuffled out of her false belly, which turned out to be made up of pork chops, chorizo, and even pork loin.

"I think that man smelled the chorizo on me, and that's what caused this trouble," Maite explained. "If it hadn't been for you ladies, I don't know what would have become of my brothers and me. My brothers slaughter their livestock at night, then bury them until they can cut up the carcasses the next night without being seen. I've been on the train carrying all this for hours. My children haven't seen meat in so long, you know…"

"Hush, woman, everything's fine now," said Marga softly. "We have to take care of each other. As for _you_ ," she said, turning to Christine, "I'll let you decide when and how to tell Gloria about your lover. But know that Gonzalo knows who he is, and so does that fellow named Oscuro."

* * *

 _La Manzana de la Discordi_ _a *****_ – the Block of Discord, on the Passeig de la Gracia, is the glorious result of a battle between modernist architects who were trying to top each other. None of the mansions on this city block can be ignored by passersby, and the Casa Batlló, which José Luis Oscuro was approaching, seemed nearly to be threatening him. Gaudí's balconies seemed to form half-masks which stared down at him, and the voluptuous curves of the rest of the façade seemed ready to unfurl onto him. Yet it was the Casa Amatller, next to the Batlló, that was Oscuro's destination. The Bagues-Masriera jewelry atelier was housed in the Gothic palace. Oscuro stopped and examined the marble figures up between the doors of the entryway: St. George, the patron saint of Catalonia, in mortal combat against the dragon. Something about the dragon's eyes reminded him of Deschamps. Come to think of it, _all_ of the dragon reminded him of the man. Oscuro rubbed his eyes tiredly. He had been to four different jewelers' shops already, but the Bagues-Mariera was really where he should have started, he decided. This was just the type of place where Deschamps would take his business. The Daaé woman had been wearing a necklace at the latest recital at the Victoria that had set tongues wagging. Many claimed its gems were false, but if Daaé's lover was actually Deschamps – and he was certain it was Deschamps – then the stones would be real rubies. Oscuro lifted his chin and entered the building.

"Does this visit mean that the _Caudillo_ and his good wife and lovely daughter may be coming to town, Captain?" the jeweler who attended Oscuro asked with some anxiety. "We need to make preparations, if that is the case."

Oscuro knew the reason for the jeweler's anxiety and smiled. Carmen Polo, Franco's wife and lover of fine jewelry, was infamous among the jewelers of Spain for her rapacious visits to their shops. Whenever she admired a particular piece, it was the unspoken obligation of the owner to gift her with it. In many cities, jewelers were pooling money into an insurance fund to cover whichever member of their guild might suffer losses due to one of her visits.

"Don't worry, friend, there is no upcoming visit from Señora Polo that I know of. But I'd like to ask about a ruby necklace that you sold some days or perhaps weeks ago."

"A ruby necklace? No, we haven't sold anything in rubies lately, sir," the jeweler responded, too quickly. "I'm sorry I can't help you." Behind him, a young woman swept behind the displays of fanciful art nouveau jewelery creations. She stopped and stared at the jeweler in surprise, her mouth slightly open. It was not lost on Oscuro.

"Perhaps you know something about a ruby necklace, señorita? Is there something you can tell me?" Oscuro squared his shoulders and looked down his nose at the woman as he approached.

His mien delivered the desired effect. The woman cringed. "There was a rather frightening man," she said. "He wore a mask…" Her eyes shifted to someplace behind Oscuro and widened. The policeman whirled around in time to see the jeweler making a frantic gesture shushing the woman. He turned back to her with a grim smile. "You will continue, please."

* * *

"Christine Daaé _is_ Deschamps' new lover," Oscuro confirmed to Fernández over a pre-lunch vermouth the following afternoon. "He had that necklace set with rubies he himself delivered to the jeweler."

Fernández whistled. "He doesn't do things halfway, does he? He appreciates beauty. But as far as I can tell, he isn't capable of sentiment."

Oscuro lit a cigarette, thinking as he puffed slowly. "I guess you're right. That necklace is a message to other men. He doesn't like having his things touched by others."

Fernández nodded. "There is one thing, though. I've heard that Deschamps is less… _productive_ lately. The Germans have been relying on his expertise, and he's been absent. I believe he's having a bit too much fun with Christine and needs to get back to work. Perhaps I should talk with her…"

Oscuro jumped, and some cigarette ash fell on his trousers. "Don't let Deschamps know we know about his affair! He can smell manipulation a mile away and he'll frustrate our intentions. If we can't use Christine to bring him back to the fold, she should be put away quietly. She's obviously a distracting influence on Deschamps."

"José Luis, I think you're an absolute barbarian!" Fernández snapped. "Who would hurt a hair on that girl's head? She's a poor, naïve creature – not much good as a spy, but she gets us pretty good information she overhears from the British she bumps elbows with at the Victoria. Do you have no loyalty at all?"

"More than you believe. Christine is not nearly as important to our cause as Deschamps, and you know it. By the way, how are things with Marga?"

Fernández nearly flinched but did not answer. Margarita was a sore subject with him lately. He had taken the dancer to his house and introduced her to his mother, and things had not gone well. His mother's screamed invectives against Marga still echoed in his ears, and he was certain the neighbors could still hear them as well. His mother's ambitions for him did not include a dancer with no money, no remaining family, and no rank in society. As a consequence of the tension in his house, Fernández was spending more time than ever in Margarita's dressing room. He practically lived there when he was not at the police headquarters on the Vía Laietana…or at the apartment two doors down from headquarters, where Spanish police routinely met with the Nazis. He and Marga were closer than ever, he felt. Why could his mother not see that even Generalisimo Franco had seemed a poor match for his wife's family and had met with opposition from Carmen Polo's snobbish Oviedo family? Yet now they along with their daughter Carmencita formed the perfect family, held up as an example for all to see!

"Marga and I are doing well," Fernández finally muttered, and added, "Just see to it that you don't spread what you know about Christine around."

"Not to worry."

* * *

Christmas was approaching, but it promised to be a dismal one. The war in Europe continued, and so did the shortages. The fratricide in Spain had left too many loyalist corpses in anonymous roadside graves and too many rebel corpses freshly interred in cemeteries. Every family had been touched in some way. Many political prisoners were at hard labor, building things as basic as roads or as pharaonic as the Valle de los Caidos, Franco's monument to honor the fascist war dead. The workers were as starved as the general populace, however, and many died as they labored over tombs destined for more honorable deaths than their own. The prisons were filled to overflowing, and the Regime's kangaroo courts and executions continued apace. And the fear continued.

Christine felt the absence of her father – and her husband – in her heart, and she saw the same kind of sadness reflected in the eyes of others. She was no longer hungry, though, and she now had some money saved. She had started to give food and other items to neighboring families with children. Now that Christmas approached, she splurged and bought the traditional Yuletide nougat, _turron_ , for her own household and her neighbors' as well. She reserved the best piece for Erik. She finished knitting another sweater for Raoul and wrapped it, finished gloves for Mamá and for Paqui, and then considered what to give to her teacher. What to give to a man who gave you rubies? Christine went to her wardrobe and took out a shawl she had been given years ago in France. It was a luxurious, charcoal-grey cashmere confection made of fine-gauge yarn. She knew she could not hope to lay her hands on cashmere yarn of that quality these days. She paused, debated with herself, then picked up her smallest-size knitting needles and started to unravel the shawl.

* * *

 _* La Manzana de la Discordia_.is a double entendre – it means "The Apple of Discord," a reference to the Judgment of Paris and its Golden Apple of Discord. The phrase also means "The Block of Discord," which this city block on the Passeig de la Gracia actually is thanks to its clash of different modernist styles. The palaces were the work of different architects and were built around the early 1900's.


	9. Chapter 9

_"If you're Spanish, speak Spanish"_

 _– Words stenciled onto a wall in Catalonia under a portrait of Franco, 1940_

Christine saw that Erik had been right, as always: the Victoria was inaugurating its new opera season with "The Flying Dutchman." When the managers had announced that Christine would be Senta, all eyes had been directed towards Carlotta – some in fear and some in gleeful anticipation of her inevitable tantrum. The diva had remained surprisingly calm, however, and had merely made a show of nodding and going back to the newspaper she was reading.

Then Carlotta had started to rehearse the role of Senta herself as openly as possible. She spent hours in her dressing room, which was very centrally located within the theater, and left the door open so that all would hear her.

"She's not your understudy. Why is she doing that?" Marga asked on one occasion, and Christine had not known what to say.

Later, alone in her dressing room with Erik, she broached the subject of Carlotta's behavior to him.

"She has an overabundance of confidence in her political power," explained Erik. "Ignore her."

"I'd be happy to ignore her, Erik, if you would only tell me _how_." The soprano's voice could be heard through the closed door of Christine's dressing room. She was singing Senta's part of the final act _fortissimo_. It did not matter what dynamics Wagner had written into the score – everything Carlotta sang was sung loudly these days.

Erik grimaced as he paced across the room. "She is more repulsive than usual today, is she not? Well, not for much longer…" He suddenly disappeared through the wall, and Christine rubbed her eyes in disbelief. The only thing that assured her that what she had seen was not supernatural was the smell of fresh plaster that wafted towards her in a current of disturbed air.

Carlotta's singing continued: " _Ich bin's, durch deren Treu' dein Heil du finden_ … _Merda_!" The diva's singing turned into a dissonant shriek at the end, followed by a series of indistinct screams in Italian. Christine cringed and heard the thunder of footfalls – the entire cast and crew of the theater was headed towards the diva's dressing room. Just as her heart began to slow, Erik materialized at her elbow. She gasped, and he placed a careful, black-clad arm around her shoulders to steady her, his eyes glowing with delight.

"What…what did you _do_ to her?" Christine was trembling.

"I treated her to an illusion, my dear. I _am_ a magician, you know. Behold!" His hand described a circle in the air, and a blue butterfly emerged, beating its wings slowly. It crossed the room and dissipated as it approached the wall, finally disappearing altogether.

Christine clapped appreciatively, her fear forgotten. "But why would Carlotta scream over something like that?"

Erik coughed slightly. "Hers was a different illusion, though based on the same technique."

"What was the difference?"

"Hers was a scorpion."

* * *

The confrontation occurred during the first run-through of "Dutchman." Carlotta arrived at the Victoria when the cast was just beginning to sing Act Two. Christine was waiting, poised to sing a soft bit of her ballad as Senta, but the clatter of quick footsteps up to the stage were heard. Carlotta approached, her eyes fixed on a space just above Christine's head, and pushed her.

"Out of my way, Little Toad!" she hissed, and stood squarely on the place Christine had been forced to vacate.

All sound and movement stopped. Then, Margarita moved forward indignantly to face Carlotta. "How dare you! The role of Senta belongs to Christine! We're trying to work, so you can just get off the stage!"

Carlotta's full lips curled into a toothy snarl. "You still don't know who I am, do you? I am –"

"Spare us the story about your ties with Ciano and the Mussolinis," Marga cut in, clearly sick of hearing the same old laundry list of threats. "I don't care who you think you are! And in case you haven't heard, Mussolini's much-vaunted Greek invasion has turned into an Albanian retreat – so don't think that your precious connections will serve you for much longer. Franco's tired of the Italians, maybe even as much as Hitler is!" Marga's fists were balled at her sides, spittle flew as she yelled, and the carotid arteries stood out at the sides of her neck.

"Oh, Marga, don't…please don't worry about me," begged Christine, concerned about what consequences Marga might suffer, even with Gonzalo Fernández as her protector. As she moved away from Carlotta and towards her friend, the huge photo of Hitler above the stage came flying down, barely missing Carlotta and crashing heavily to the stage behind her.

" _You!_...This is your doing!" Carlotta screamed and pointed at Christine. "You little communist, anarchist, Judeo-Masonic, subversive _spy_! Yes! She's been spying on me! How else can this be explained?"

The managers, Junyent and Soler, were approaching the stage in alarm. They usually did not meddle in artistic affairs and kept strictly to their office. "Signorina, please!"

"I am leaving, but don't think you've won! You haven't seen the last of me!" Carlotta screeched, and, leaving the stage, she collected her fur and stormed up the aisle and out of the theater. There was a moment of stunned silence. Then someone clapped, and the entire cast erupted into applause. Margarita celebrated the moment by executing a pirouette, and Christine saw that Fernández was watching her just offstage as he smoked a cigarette. Behind him there was darkness, except for the glow of yellow eyes.

* * *

Christine found herself in a crowded streetcar going down the Ramblas the following morning. A terse message from Gloria had instructed her to go to be fitted for a dress at an address there. Her eyes flitted about anxiously, but nobody in the car seemed to be paying attention to her. Outside, she could see the crowds of people bustling up and down its tree-lined expanse. On the streets flanking the boulevard, bicycles and cars competed with the streetcar for space. A scrap collector with his donkey cart slowed down traffic, oblivious to the driver in the old Hispano-Suiza behind him, who had rolled down the car window and was yelling at him, his arms gesticulating frenetically. "Hey! Do you know how much gasoline costs these days? And there's rationing on, it's not as if I'm not running low now…! _Hey_ …!"

Once she had stepped off the streetcar, she checked addresses until she came to a building with a graceful modernist façade. She paused, fidgeting with her gloves before she entered the building's dark marble foyer, where a mahogany-and-glass elevator awaited. She carefully closed its doors behind her, the ancient motor clanking and whirring as she ascended to the fourth floor.

"I'm here for my 11 o'clock appointment," Christine explained to the woman who opened the door. She was short and dark and wore half-moon glasses, and the measuring tape draped around her neck gave her trade away. The woman's startled stare was one she was accustomed to – Christine looked blonde and foreign, yet spoke Spanish with a local accent. "You must be Maria José…I hope I'm not importuning you. I know I'm half an hour early."

"It's okay, Maria...I don't mind sharing space with another of your clients," came Gloria's voice in heavily-accented Spanish.

"Come in," said the seamstress, and she dimpled as she smiled. She continued in Catalan in a low voice, " _Escolta_ , this American woman is impossible. Do you mind staying with her a bit while I run to the shop to get some items I'll need for her dress? She has the strangest tastes!"

"Not at all," responded Christine in the same language. Maria José squeezed her arm and left, the quick click of her heels echoing down the tiles of the hallway towards the elevator. As soon as Christine heard the whir of the elevator gears turning, she left the foyer and went into the salon, where she found Gloria in front of a mirror, her willowy form pinned into a red satin evening gown.

"Don't worry – I'm paying the seamstress well," Gloria greeted her in English.

"I hope so. That material alone is worth a month's hard labor at the Victoria, by my calculations," replied Christine. "You look lovely, though."

"I'll be going to some Christmas charity balls and have to look fetching," she said, pursing her lips in the mirror. "And since you're here and need to order something, I'll be paying for whatever dress you ask Maria Jesús to make for you. We're very pleased with your work for us – the recitals are turning out to be an excellent method to transmit information. And Gonzalo Fernández seems to be swallowing the misinformation you're feeding him. But you have to tell me how you came by that information on Manfred Katz."

"You told me to listen to people at the Victoria. I've been listening. And…" Christine thought about Erik and felt the heat of a blush rise to her cheeks.

"You have a lover," Gloria said, smiling. "And a useful one. That necklace he gave you is the cat's pajamas! Real rubies?"

"No," lied Christine.

"So who is he?"

"A musician with some sympathies towards the Nazis."

"I was hoping for a name," Gloria said dryly.

"I'm a married woman, Gloria, and I've sinned. I'm not naming names."

Gloria set her jaw, but changed the subject. "You're going to star in the next Wagnerian opera the Victoria puts on. Well done! You've got talent…and so I'm letting you know that you will be receiving invitations to sing at different functions at the Ritz. The Ritz has become a hotbed of Nazis... and of the stylish people from the Franco regime who are running with them. So I'm asking you to hobnob."

"'Hobnob?'" Christine asked, confused.

"Hobnob – you know, mix with people. Be friendly. Keep your eyes open and your ears open and let us know anything of interest that you hear. I keep forgetting that English isn't your first language…"

"I'll try to… _hobnob_ , then."

"Good. There will be Christmas parties and winter teas and such. With your rise to fame, your invitations will increase, trust me. And, Christine?"

"Yes?"

"Do try to keep that lover of yours."

* * *

" _Ave María Purísima_." It was Father Efrén's voice coming through the screen, and Christine relaxed slightly.

" _Sin pecado concebida_ ," she responded automatically, adjusting her veil. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned…"

The church of San José Oriol was cold this morning, and Christine's knees felt numb as she knelt in the confessional. Yet she felt nothing but the relief of finally unburdening herself of all the secrets that had been tormenting her, every one of them. _Reconciliation_. She whispered of her work for the Allies, and of the necessity of lying to everyone. She spoke of her need to be faithful to her husband in his absence in spite of temptation. She whispered of Erik, finally, and her confusing relationship with him. It had been years since Christine had trusted anyone so completely, and she felt like a diver experiencing the thrill of plummeting from great heights, secure in the knowledge that there was good, deep water below.

It was the mention of Erik's mask that snared the priest's concern. "You say his name is Erik? I think I know something of him. What a coincidence that you've met him!" He granted Christine absolution, but stopped her as she emerged from the confessional and gave her a long, searching look. "Come to the rectory for tea; we'll talk."

A dark-eyed woman with a heart-shaped face and riotous black curls received them and served tea. Her manner was so inhibited that Christine decided she was painfully shy. "My sister, Rocío," Don Efrén said by way of introduction, then went directly on to his topic as Rocío left the room. "You have captured the attention of Erik Deschamps, it seems."

"Yes. I've told you everything."

"Now it's my turn, and I must warn you. I coincided with him during my work at the front and at the prison. He can be dangerous. Be careful, Christine."

"I've gathered that, and I'm as careful as I can be. What was he doing during the war, exactly?"

The priest hesitated. "There were rumors…he was capable of violence, but those were only rumors. The truth is that, as far as I know, Erik Deschamps makes his money providing intelligence to the Germans and the _franquistas_ – to some degree. Where he really makes a fortune is in organizing the delivery of supplies to German submarines off the Spanish coast. He does not trust any currency and accepts payment only in gold. And he does love his luxuries, beautiful things. I would advise you against becoming another pretty trinket of his.

"The man is remarkably intelligent – a genius, as you've told me, and very creative. I think the world would have much to gain if he were to turn his talents to good. Unfortunately, the nature of his upbringing makes that unlikely."

"His upbringing, Father?"

"He was fatherless, and rejected and abused by his own mother because of his deformity. He was sold as a sideshow freak, exploited, abused again…and then, as a young man, he began to take his revenge on the human race. Erik does not consider himself to be part of the human race, and owes no one allegiance to its rules, to his way of thinking. He is an architect, among many other things, and went to serve the Reza Shah in Iran in his attempts to modernize the country. His ideas regarding bringing infrastructure up to date were brilliant, but very soon he was helping Reza Shah to make his more fractious ministers disappear. He finally fled the country richer, but more hardened than ever, and completely prepared to become involved in a war somewhere."

"How did you learn all of this?" Christine found herself fighting tears. But why was she suffering over Erik's past? As was habitual, she put off examining her feelings too closely and forced herself to think of Raoul. She took another sip of weak, sugarless tea and breathed deeply.

"I've conversed with him, and throughout our conversations he's been candid, sardonic, cynical, and matter-of-fact. Please keep quiet about where and how you've learned all this, Christine."

"Of course I will…and I'll be as careful as I can. By the way, I've been meaning to ask you…have you had time to make inquiries regarding the whereabouts of my husband?"

"I've sent messages to French friends of mine in the Franciscan order. So far, I haven't received an answer, but it's early yet. And I have to be discreet. There are Nazis and Nazi spies everywhere, and censors…so I have to send correspondence through secure personal channels."

Christine smiled. "I'm so grateful for your help, Father. There's not much I can do in return, but I'll be sure to get you tickets to our next opera."

"Not Wagner again, I hope!" Don Efrén muttered.

"Well, yes, it is…"

"Forgive me if I've had enough of the pandering to the Nazis that goes on these days. Putting on 'Parsifal' was a terrible idea where Himmler's concerned. He takes all the starlight and moonbeams concerning the Holy Grail seriously, you know."

"But 'Parsifal' is just a legend, Father."

The priest lowered his voice to a near-whisper. "Not to Himmler. The Regime, which sheds salty tears over the priests killed by communists and anarchists, allies itself with the Nazis, who are actively killing our religious brethren in Poland. Bad enough! But you can imagine how horrified our Benedictine friends at the monastery of Monserrat were to find Nazis at their doorstep a couple of months ago. Himmler himself showed up there demanding to see the Holy Grail! My friend Andreu Ripol is a priest there and, since he speaks German, was pressed into service as a translator, much against his will, mind you. He says that Himmler was terribly rude and accused the monks of hiding the Grail from him."

"Why on earth does he want the Holy Grail so badly? Doesn't he have a war to fight?" Christine said with some bitterness.

"Himmler's a devotee of the occult, of esoterica, of legends," the priest said so quietly that Christine had to lean forward even farther to hear him. "His office of the Ahnenerbe sends personnel all over the world to find historical artefacts in hopes they will attest to the supremacy of the Aryan race. He actually believes that the Holy Grail can give him supernatural power! Oh, the _Barceloneses_ don't disabuse him of this notion – they love to think that the Montsalvat of the legend of Parsifal is our own Montserrat mountain. And Himmler's swallowed the idea hook, line, and sinker."

Christine shook her head, sighed, and placed her empty teacup on the oak side table. She noticed that the salon's sparse furnishings were handsome and in the Castilian style, but that the woodworm had done its work on most of the pieces, and they were peppered with holes. She felt a pang of sympathy for Father Efrén, but consoled herself by remembering that priests were better fed than most people, as they were given a greater share of rations. "Well, if Himmler wants a holy relic, there must be hundreds to be had in churches all over Spain. I remember seeing St. Teresa's uncorrupted finger in Avila once. It was black and disgusting. He can have _that_."

Christine and Don Efrén parted in the street in front of St. José Oriol. José Luis Oscuro watched from across the street as Christine made her way towards a taxi. He tossed his cigarette to the pavement, crushed it out with his shoe, and stared at the priest, lost in thought.


	10. Chapter 10

**Many thanks, as always, to those who have given such thoughtful feedback. You rock! :)**

* * *

 _Carmencita Franco, the daughter of the_ Caudillo, _has graciously sent the Press Association 200 volumes of stories, adventures, and travels, to be distributed among the children at Epiphany._

– ABC, _December 27, 1940_

After a Christmas Eve dinner of salted codfish, Christine slipped out her house on tiptoe to avoid detection by Mamá Valerio. She felt her gift for Erik crinkle beneath her coat. It was wrapped in plain brown paper, as nothing better was available, but she had decorated it with a green hair ribbon that had been carefully washed and ironed and scented with anise. The brass key Erik had given her weighed heavily under her bodice, and she brought her hand up to assure herself it was there. _The key to Erik's kingdom,_ she thought giddily. He had instructed her carefully about how to use it to open the lock; then he had towered over her as she demonstrated, exasperated, that she was quite capable of turning the key properly. She remembered the exact place in the tunnel she had been told to stand when she called him. This would be her first visit to Erik's home under Montjuic – well, her first _voluntary_ visit – and she felt a nervous tingle. He had wanted her to return there ever since she left, and his insistence had become more marked with each of their lessons in her dressing room. She had been reluctant to call on him before her conversation with Father Efrén. Now, though, something within her that had been closed like a fist was opening its fingers slightly. The Erik she had known before had been a frightening being, and she could feel something terrible simmering beneath his cool surface. Yet Father Efrén's words had conjured up the image of an injured and lonely child, and the vision haunted her now. He had not spoken a word about what he would be doing during Christmas. She imagined him alone in his cold sanctuary under the mountain, and the thought propelled her forward. She would give him his gift for _Reyes_ early and truly surprise him with both the gift and her visit, and she would try to forget the ache that Raoul's absence caused her. They were both alone in a way, weren't they?

The streets were quiet. A few people straggled down the Ronda Sant Pau, headed back to their homes after their Christmas Eve dinners with friends and families. Montjuic loomed dark over the city, its castle outlined against the cold night sky. Christine walked southward through El Poble Sec and its narrower, less prosperous streets. The air smelled of coal fires; laundry dried from lines on the small balconies.

Finally, she arrived at Erik's hidden door, lit the lantern he had left for her, and entered the tunnel. She counted the number of paces and arrived at the place where she was to call him, and he would hear her. He had made it clear that she should go no further, and that there were dangerous traps arrayed throughout the tunnels. Christine considered, doubted, and finally scoffed. The entire thing seemed absurd to her now, and the idea of calling Erik seemed completely unnecessary. She squared her shoulders resolutely. She remembered the way to Erik's home through these tunnels, and she would make her way to his house without his help – she would surprise him completely.

Her footsteps were careful ones, and she lifted the lantern before her as she proceeded down the spacious tunnel at the entrance. As she approached the first narrower tunnel which branched off from the main one, she became more cautious, distributing her weight carefully on first the balls of her feet, then the heels; she wished to be as silent as Erik. She stopped now and then to lift the lantern upwards – to the right, and then to the left, examining the sandstone to make sure there was nothing lurking in the darkness. The inky blackness of the tunnel ahead might have terrified her, had she been younger. Yet she had long ago concluded that people were much more terrifying than things.

Just as she began to relax and let her footsteps be heard, something metal hurled towards her from the right. She dodged it neatly, pivoting to the left, and she was blinded by a sudden light. All around her flames had sprung up, forming a complete circle and trapping her within. All air was sucked out from within her lungs. About three feet separated her from the flames which danced and roared and licked the ceiling of the tunnel. Something above her made a loud cracking sound and gave way, and she tried to scream Erik's name as a scorched fragment of stone fell from the ceiling and hit her on the forehead. A dark form shimmered and swam through the wall of flame, which was closing in on Christine; now only two feet of space remained, and she could smell some of the wool from her coat singeing.

The flames subsided with a _whoosh_ as Erik parted them with a broad arc of his arms. Christine felt herself scooped up in a fluid motion, though she could see nothing. She had dropped the lantern, and there were spots dancing before her eyes.

His breath smelled of Scotch whiskey, and as she came to her senses, she realized he was speaking to her. "…never dreamed that _you,_ of all people, would do something so stupid, so very foolhardy! Did you think I was joking when I told you of my little traps? If not for the alarms, you would have been killed!" His grip was so tight that her ribcage felt restricted, and she could feel his quick, shallow breaths. All was in complete darkness save the angry incandescence of his eyes.

"You said 'little' traps, Erik, not big ones!" she protested weakly. "What on earth would you consider a fully-fledged trap?" The injured child that she had envisioned was gone now, and Erik was once more the frightening man she had met on the night he had kidnapped her.

With Christine still in his arms, he whirled around and glided swiftly through the tunnels. She was still too dazed to question how he could see in the blackness surrounding them, and unconsciousness claimed her as they continued towards Erik's house.

"Drink this."

She blinked awake. Erik was bending over her, and he brought a glass to her lips. She drank the cool, soothing, greenish liquid within and sat up. She was in his study once more.

"I seem destined to regain consciousness on your divan," she said, and pushed herself up to a sitting position. "Happy Christmas," she added, nodding towards the crumpled package that was lying atop her coat on an armchair. She noticed that Erik's cloak was draped over the top of the chair as well.

The glowing eyes scrutinized her, and Christine saw with surprise that Erik was not focusing on her words. It was odd, she decided; his wit was like lightning. He was usually so attuned to each nuance of her every word, so rapid and acute, that it was hard to keep up her end of a conversation with him. Speaking with Erik was both exhilarating and exhausting.

Finally, he heaved a shuddering sigh. "Fortunately, there was no harm done. I shall bring some water, now. You must continue to drink liquids," and he was gone.

Christine groaned, stood up, and picked up her coat. It smelled of oil-smoke and looked slightly blackened in several places. She would have to discard it, she decided ruefully. She glanced admiringly at Erik's cloak. Lifting it off the chair, she quickly gauged the quality of the fine wool – the best. The lining was the next subject of her examination – red satin, also of the best quality, but there was a stain near the inside pocket, and something coiled up within its depths. She looked around. There was no sign of Erik. She slid her hand into the pocket and pulled out a rolled-up line of thin, supple leather. Bits of it were stained and wet, and Christine dropped it quickly back into the pocket and carefully returned the cloak to its place on the chair. Her fingertips felt sticky. She glanced at them and froze, then brought them to eye level: blood. She could smell it; she knew its metallic odor too well. Sea-waves roared in her ears.

"Inquisitive creature, aren't you, my dear?" Erik had glided into the room with his habitual noiselessness.

The blood drained from Christine's face. "You had just arrived home when I set off your alarms," she deduced slowly. "And the errand you were returning from was...unsavory." The last word was a whisper, but she knew he heard her clearly. She wondered whether she, too, would eventually die by Erik's hand. All it would take would be a simple fall from grace, and she had seen many of those in her time.

Erik seemed to read her mind. "I would sooner end my own miserable existence than harm you," he said softly, but after a glance away from Christine, his tone quickly shifted to sarcasm. "I regret having taken my work home with me – how careless! Imagine my sullying the virgin soil of this _peaceful_ country with the lifeblood of a poor, helpless Nazi collaborator...well, _helpless_ is a relative term, I suppose. He was becoming far too friendly with your Miss Munroe."

"Gloria? He was going to kill _Gloria_?"

"Perhaps. The poor fool of a woman did not even realize what the man was. She is a poor, naïve college student sent to set up a network without the proper training – not that proper training is possible in this field. I do not doubt for one minute that, once captured, Miss Munroe could be _persuaded_ to name names – and one of those names happens to be _yours_..."

"Gloria wasn't hurt, was she? She's – "

"What the devil do _I_ care what occurs or does not occur to your incompetent of a network leader? She's already been far more trouble than she's worth. She has no idea what has happened to the man and is completely safe, for the moment, provided she doesn't fall into the arms of another conniving Lothario. I should not be required to dedicate time to playing shepherd to _her_ when I am trying to watch over my own lamb." Here, his fiery eyes softened, as did his tone. "You came to pay your poor Erik a visit on Christmas Eve, did you not? I had thought you would be spending the entire evening with your guardian. But I am being a vile host to you!"

He pulled a footstool towards a damask armchair and gestured for Christine to be seated. "I shall take your coat." He picked up her coat gingerly, between his finger and thumb, and sniffed in disgust. "You really must take some of the clothing I have given you to your guardian's house."

"Thank you, but no." Christine's clothing was a subject of discord between her teacher and herself. She accepted his gifts of food at a price to her pride, but she regarded his gift of clothing as inappropriate. No matter how Erik harangued or insisted, she remained true to her resolve. The clothing she wore was dowdy, old and dyed black, but she _fit in_. Erik's tastes were luxurious and stylish, much too stylish. She could imagine how the Church would view a woman wearing trousers; priests spent much of their time inveighing from the pulpit against low necklines and uncovered female arms. The thought of the ruby necklace she wore during recitals made her sigh in frustration. She had already accepted far too much from Erik.

"I've brought something for you. I didn't want to wait for _Reyes_ on January 6," Christine said, handing him the gift. "It's nothing special, but I hope you can use it."

Erik accepted the package carefully, as though afraid he would break it. He opened it slowly, his long fingers nearly graceless for once, and his breath caught audibly as he withdrew the contents. The charcoal-gray muffler was simple, except for the "E" Christine had embroidered upon it in red silk. "It's beautiful," Erik finally said, and the tremor in his glorious voice astonished Christine. "Oh, Christine!" A bony hand reached towards her cheek but quickly withdrew. "My Christine. My Senta."

The adoration flaming in Erik's eyes sent waves of electricity throughout Christine's senses. She recovered herself by remembering that he had killed a man mere hours ago. How many men had he killed without even a shadow of regret? Any genuine love or affection must be foreign to such a man.

"Come, I have something for you as well," he said, regal once more, and he towered over Christine as he ushered her into a hallway. Opening a door, he exposed yet another door, this one of steel, with what appeared to be a combination lock. After turning the lock several times, much too quickly for Christine to follow, the door opened with a dry rattling noise. Dust-covers draped several large oblong forms, and Christine shuddered; she was reminded of Erik's coffin. Erik retrieved a small cedar box from a table in the corner and handed it to her, his gaze fixed on hers. Lifting the lid, she saw a glint of gold among the excelsior paper, and she carefully lifted a heavy figure from the box: an angel wrought in gold. The face was hers.

"This is beautiful, Erik...but how can I accept it? It's gold, isn't it?"

"It is indeed a gold alloy, but have no fear. I am by no means short of the material." He pulled the dust cover off of one of the forms, and the dim electric light shone and glinted off a large stack of gold bars. He strode over to the other stacks, pulling the cloths off to reveal even more bars beneath.

"It's true, then," Christine murmured, the blood in her veins cold with shock.

"What is true?"

She looked away. "Nothing...never mind."

But Erik's raptor gaze was steady upon her. "Look at me, Christine," he said, his beautiful voice dangerously mellifluous.

Against her will, her eyes were drawn to his, and she found herself stammering, "You...you supply German submarines and are paid in..in gold bars..." With a great effort of will, she tore her eyes away from his.

There was a silence, during which she could still feel Erik's eyes upon her. "How long have you known Don Efrén?"

"Don who?" Christine attempted, fixing her stare on the angel in her hands. The angel's face... _her_ face...smiled up at her, its gaze empty and oblivious.

"You know perfectly well," he said in honeyed tones, but something like a dagger lurked beneath the sweetness.

When had she become so accustomed to lying? Christine wondered whether passing herself off as a widow had been the beginning. Why was it now her instinct to tell people the opposite of the truth? Her rubies were too real for her to bear the truth behind them...but _what_ truth? Her mind closed down on the subject before she could go farther. And why didn't she deny that she had a lover? For the same reasons she didn't deny that she was a widow, she reasoned. She borrowed the guise to camouflage who she really was – it was her method of defense. Yet lying to Erik would be perilous. Still, if she wanted to protect poor Father Efrén from Erik's wrath, she would have to pretend not to know the priest.

"Who is Don Efrén?" she ventured, peeking up at Erik before she had the good sense to stop herself. What she saw was frightening. His eyes, which so often flashed gold, had somehow darkened with anger, and he had drawn himself up to a seemingly impossible height. Everything about him seemed black. A lightning-flash of realization illuminated the dark panic of her thoughts: This was Erik. This was no longer the man who diminished himself in order to soothe, comfort, or entertain her. This was his _business side_ , this anger, and she did not wish to see it.

A movement startled Christine. She watched in horror as a large spider made its way across the face of the angel she held. Dropping the angel, she stifled a cry. "Please...I've only known Father Efrén for a few weeks. It turns out he knew my father, so I go to see him every now and then. He's such a nice man! He just wants me to be...to be safe."

"So, naturally, you told him about me and he warned you to keep away," Erik probed, but it was not a question.

"I told him about you during confession! I've not told anyone else about you at all, Erik, but I had to confess _every_ sin I've committed – and with who – to receive absolution. And then it turned out that Father Efrén knows you and...he feared you might be trifling with me."

"Please be so good as to satisfy my curiosity. What, exactly, have you and I done that requires your penance?" The swift staccato in which Erik delivered this question betrayed some emotion that Christine refused to identify, but her body responded with sudden heat.

 _I've had impure thoughts about you!_ To Christine's dismay, she nearly blurted out the first thing that popped, unbidden, into her mind. "I've been a spy," she managed.

There was another moment of uncomfortable silence before Christine dared to look up, and she saw with surprise that Erik had relaxed and was even smiling slightly, his eyes distant.

"I'm sorry I tried to deceive you," she said, "but I'm so afraid you might...might..."

His eyes snapped back to hers. "I would never harm a man for trying to protect you, especially not Don Efrén. I have tormented that poor fellow enough for this lifetime as it is," he remarked, and Christine could not help staring at Erik in astonishment.

"There, now. Was it so difficult to tell your poor Erik the truth, Christine?" Erik's cool hand caressed her bruised forehead lightly, moving down her cheek to finally tip her chin up. "Do not ever try to deceive me, my dear, for I will know, and you must trust me completely. Do you understand?" His eyes bored into hers, searching.

Finally, she nodded.

"Good. Now, I've just received some excellent pâté...and some sweet Pedro Ximénez wine straight from Malaga. Yet I must insist that you take water with it – you've just escaped the flame! I think that in another hour you'll have recovered sufficiently..."

He then moved them to the dining room as though nothing had happened.

* * *

Christine's visit lasted until early morning, and Erik reluctantly escorted her through the tunnels until she was situated again in the streets of Poble Sec. It was Christmas Day, and all the shops were closed, but there was a clatch of revelers from the Calle Mayor de Gracia area still celebrating along the Avenida del Paralelo. The second prize from the national lottery's Christmas prize, thousands of pesetas, had been divided among a large group of shopkeepers. A group of about fifteen of them was singing a spirited version of " _La Marimorena_ ," a favorite carol of hers. She smiled to herself as she passed them and made her way towards her flat.

"Señora Cristina! A Happy Christmas!" greeted a voice nearby, and she froze. It was Manolo, the neighborhood _sereno._ The watchman's keys jangled at his belt as he approached Christine. "You have been out the entire night, haven't you? You must have more family nearby than I thought!"

Christine felt her ears go hot. She had not been careful enough to escape the _sereno_ 's notice, and now he could use her suspected lapse of morality against her. She thought about appealing to Erik – but, no, she did _not_ wish to see Manolo strangled to death with the same strange lasso that Erik had used to murder Gloria's acquaintance.

"I was just celebrating...a relative of mine won part of the lottery prize, too, you know!" And rooting around in her purse, she extracted a 25-peseta bill and pressed it into his hand. "A very Happy Christmas to you, too, Manolo!"

He nodded, content with her generosity, and she continued up the steps to her building.


	11. Chapter 11

_From the year 1939, there existed an agreement between the Spanish general Martínez Anido_ _and Himmler, according to which any German suspicious of not supporting the Nazi cause in our country could be arrested and repatriated immediately without any type of extradition or preliminary trial._

 _–_ _José María Irujo, "La lista negra: los espías nazis en España"_

"We'll see how long you last, you croaking Red bitch!" Carlotta spat as Christine ducked back stage, the audience's final roar of approval still rattling the rafters. "The Flying Dutchman" had opened to a full house, in spite of a propaganda effort spearheaded by Carlotta – or perhaps _because_ of that effort. People had filled the Victoria because they were curious to see how badly this "Dutchman" could sink. Thanks to Carlotta, Christine Daaé was reputed to be a well-connected upstart whose voice was not good enough for any supporting role, much less a leading role. Incensed by these rumors and buoyed up by Erik's unwavering confidence in her, Christine had aggressively _shone_ as Senta. She had sung her soul out, all the while delighting in the pleasure her teacher would take in her performance.

Now Christine was confronted with a furious Carlotta in the wings. The prima donna was also costumed as Senta and had been given as large a bouquet of red roses as Christine herself now held. A glance to the area just behind Carlotta revealed the managers, who were wringing their hands in anxiety. The diva's bouquet was clearly intended as a consolation gift, but it was not working. Carlotta lunged towards Christine, but the young woman fled towards her dressing room. There was to be a party after the show, and it was important that she attend it, preferably intact.

* * *

" _Brava!"_ The richest, most powerful two syllables in any language, coming from Erik. Christine stepped out from behind her Chinese screen, startled. She was clad only in a slip, but she found it easier and easier to forget herself around her teacher.

Erik hissed as he took in oxygen, and his body was completely rigid. His eyes, however, seemed to consume her entirely. Their slow journey from her face, to her neck, to her breasts...lingering there...to her hips, then to her legs registered as a tingle throughout her senses. She pulled her dowdy black cocktail dress from the chair and dove behind the screen once more, breathing in deeply.

"Thank you," she managed, and immediately felt stupid. _Thank you for the "brava" or thank you for the visual inspection? "_ I sang for you alone, Erik."

"That is a great gift indeed, and your teacher is grateful," said Erik softly. "My Christine."

Feigning poise she did not feel, she emerged from the screen fully dressed, the ruby necklace dangling from her hand. "Fasten me, please?" She handed him the jewelry and, after gathering her hair up and pinning it, presented him with the back of her neck expectantly. There was a quiet pause, and then she felt the unmistakable light pressure of his cool lips on her nape. Against every instinct, she moved away from them. The necklace was now fastened securely about her neck. She turned to gaze at Erik, and she knew that her eyes held all the terror and hope of a woman lost. Immediately, Christine knew she had given herself away. _How_ could she have dared to look Erik – _Erik_ , the magician, the mind-reader! – right in the eyes in her vulnerable state? She had fought so long to conceal the tumult of her own desire from him. His own eyes were frightening in the sudden triumphant knowledge they held – they fairly blazed, and Erik stepped forward, an arm outstretched.

"Christine!" The doorknob rattled, and Margarita slapped on the door several times rather than knocking. "Are you coming or not?"

Erik stepped back, his gaze still hot upon Christine, and he seemed to vanish into the wall. She sighed and opened the door, instantly finding herself enveloped in Marga's embrace.

"When did you become such an _artiste_? Carlotta is dying! _Chica_ , you showed _everyone_ tonight! Let's get going...moments like this are too few."

* * *

The Victoria's reception room exploded into applause as Christine entered. She felt herself blush, then she noticed that Avelino Ruz was also standing and applauding her. He had sung the role of the Dutchman beautifully that evening. Smiling around the room with borrowed aplomb, she lifted her arms to applaud her fellow artist and was gratified when everyone else joined her.

" _Queridas_ , you were wonderful," Gonzalo Fernández moved towards them bearing glasses of champagne. He moved through the crowd with his arms about each woman's shoulder, making courtly introductions. The room was teeming with people, though Christine was relieved to see that Carlotta was absent.

"My friend, José Luis," came another abrupt introduction from Gonzalo, and a short, stocky man lifted his nose in the air in a comical attempt to look down at Christine, then seized her hand and kissed it, his black eyes staring into hers. So, _this_ was the Sr. Oscuro Margarita had mentioned! Christine felt a shock of revulsion run up her arm. She could not explain why, but the man's eyes reminded her of a shark's – flat, expressionless, cold. She forced a smile to her lips, reminding herself to engage in the conversational niceties that were de rigueur. Finally, she turned to Gonzalo. "I see some of my British friends from the last gathering. I'll just say 'hello' to them now..." She made good her escape.

Christine had indeed become acquainted with members of the British diplomatic corps, many of whom were present tonight. She spent as much time as she could speaking of almost nothing at great length with them and nodding gravely from time to time – Gonzalo would think she was gleaning something useful from her conversation with them. As the crowd began to thin, she went to the ladies' room and, taking out her lipstick, began to apply a fresh coat to her lips. Someone left the room, and Christine sensed another person enter. She heard the click of the lock on the door and startled, looking behind her at the door. An elegant man of medium height in a smoking jacket, his dark hair shiny with pomade, was standing in front of the door, looking at her.

"I don't know where you think you are," Christine began, with feigned calm, "but this is the ladies' – "

"I've a message for Gloria," he said in a hushed voice. His accent was slightly German. "I'm sorry to communicate it like this, but it's urgent and I've no alternative. You mistrust me?"

Christine's spine had stiffened with alarm, but she said nothing.

"I understand...listen, I'm the one who has been going to your weekly recitals so religiously. Do you understand now?"

She nodded and moved closer to him.

"Call me Oscar. I think I've been compromised. Tell Gloria that Oscar has been compromised, have you got that? Tell her that Nigel Bowers is almost certainly collaborating with the Nazis and has exposed me – and who knows how many more? Leave now."

He unlocked the door. Christine fled the powder room in search of Marga.

* * *

"Do you have any information for me, _querida_?" Gonzalo Fernández lit a cigarette of the expensive kind – a Camel – and sat forward expectantly. They were in Marga's dressing room the morning after the opening of "Dutchman." Gonzalo was ensconced in his favorite armchair, and Marga and Christine perched together on the chaise longue, both facing him. Christine felt ridiculously like a schoolgirl being examined.

She cleared her throat. "The British are worried about Gibraltar. Vichy France bombed it in September, which really put them on alert. Now they think Franco may let German troops come through the peninsula so that they can seize the colony and gain control of the Mediterranean. They're prepared to cut off all imports to Spain if that happens."

Fernández scowled. It rankled the Franco regime that the British maintained a naval blockade around Spain, inspected ships, and issued "navicerts" – clearance to enter Spanish ports and unload cargo there. Royal Navy inspectors would certify the cargo of each ship bound for Spain at its port of origin. Thus, the British controlled the import of petroleum and other goods to Spain. The Franco regime had appealed to the Nazis for help in obtaining oil, but Germany was sore pressed to supply its own war effort at the moment.

"They don't like the fact that Spain is still selling tungsten to the Nazis," Christine added.

"So? We'll sell tungsten to the British, too, if they want!" sputtered Fernández. "I'm sorry, Christine...please continue."

"There are also rumors that the Germans are bribing high officials in the Regime here to influence Franco to enter the war as an ally of the Axis powers. The British joke that they're bribing those same officials...and about thirty of his generals...to do just the opposite. Only I don't think it's such a joke."

"But I'm offended!" snorted Fernández, the cigarette smoke encircling his head like a wreath. "Why was I not included in these bribes? I've a good mind to lodge a complaint with the British Embassy!" Seeing the startled look on the women's faces, he barked out a laugh. "I have no doubt that those rumors are true. And why not? Turbulent waters are of profit to the fisherman! There are plenty of people profiting from both sides of this unfortunate conflict." Margarita looked slightly uncomfortable and dropped her eyes, but Fernández continued. " _Franquito_ , our _Caudillo_ by the grace of the Almighty, finds himself between a rock and a hard place now. He knows he owes the Nazis his victory. And Hitler demands payment in full. He produced a document for Franco to sign, saying that he agrees that Spain will enter the war on the side of the Axis. Franco didn't sign it. Hitler also wants Spain to commit to a German base in the Canary Islands. Franco wants Germany to give him _something in exchange_ , though, ladies – he's not a Galician for nothing! He wants northern African territories, including Morocco and Algeria – won't France be happy? – in addition to Gibraltar. 'My dear general,' Hitler told him, 'I can't hand something over to you that doesn't belong to me yet!' And Hitler also made things clear: Franco has no choice. The Nazis are sitting right across the Pyrenees, waiting, and beating the stuffing out of the rest of Europe. It's only a matter of time before the British fall. Last month – November – Hitler demanded once more that Spain enter the war. He was finally told flatly that we can't – that we don't get enough wheat imports as things are, that people are starving, that we don't have oil. What would another war do to us? Winter's here. The Führer knows the numbers. He's given Franco more time to decide, but who knows? He may become impatient enough to invade." Fernández tapped dark ash into the ashtray and stared off into the middle distance.

Christine took careful mental note of what Gonzalo had said, then ventured, "There has also been talk of Alfonso XIII. He's very ill, they say, and they're talking about the succession."

"Our runaway king. Yes. He never did abdicate, did he?"

A disgraced Alfonso XIII had left Spain with his family in 1931 when its Second Republic was proclaimed and democracy arrived. The monarch had been a friend of Franco, even serving as best man at his wedding, for many years before the start of the civil war. The king had been a fervent supporter of the generals' coup d'etat, mistakenly believing that Franco would restore the monarchy once the war had ended. He had been bitterly disappointed.

"No, he never did abdicate," continued Christine. "He's in the Grand Hotel in Rome, in Room 32. He's gained a great deal of weight, drinks like a fish, and smokes like a chimney – though his doctor ordered him to stop smoking and drinking."

"That's our Alfonso," commented Gonzalo cheerfully. "As austere and strait-laced as you care in public, but _very_ loose in private. But the monarchist generals love him and are giving our _generalisimo_ a headache about not restoring him to the throne. Now it appears it's too late. But you say they're talking about the succession? His eldest son, Alfonso, died two years ago in Miami, you know. Minor traffic accident, minor injuries, but major problems, since he was a hemophiliac."

"I know. It was sad..."

"And the next in line, Jaime, has renounced all claim to the succession. He's been a deaf-mute from birth, you see what happens when cousins marry cousins? So, the next in line would be Juan. They're stuck with Juan de Borbon, aren't they?"

"Ehm...yes, the king's expected to abdicate in favor of Juan. Juan has a bit of a reputation..."

"He drinks and he's a hothead who views women as whores. Yes. There's a bit of fun in store for Franco, isn't there?"

"And there's a great deal of sympathy for the queen, who keeps trying to visit her dying husband. He won't even let her into his room."

"Poor Victoria Eugenia! He blamed _her_ for all their dead, sick progeny. Never forgave her, the son of a... _excuse_ me. But I can imagine how the British must sympathize with her. She was Queen Victoria's favorite granddaughter, after all, and then she was handed over to a man...like... _him_!" He stubbed out his cigarette emphatically with each word.

Margarita, who had been silent up till now, added, "You would never dream of treating a woman like that, would you, Gonzalo?" There was a softness to her expression that startled Christine.

 _She really loves him!_

"Of course not, _querida_ \- what kind of blackguard do you take me for? And don't worry. I'll get Mother to accept you, too, if it's the last thing I do." His expression was fierce.

 _...And he loves her, too!_

"Thank you, Christine," Gonzalo said, waving a dismissive hand. "Marga will see to it that the usual pesetas are given you for your information. You've been moderately helpful, as usual." He opened the door and ushered her out.

* * *

New Year's Eve came, and Christine stayed home with Mamá Valerio. They followed the tradition and ate a grape for good luck with every stroke of the clock at midnight. There was no shortage of grapes, at least.

 _Good luck. 1941, what will you bring?_ Christine missed her father, thought of Raoul, then found her mind wandering to Erik. Something nameless compelled her to put on a robe and peek out the doors of the balcony. Beyond the wrought-iron flowers that knotted the bars, she focused on a tall figure which disappeared rapidly into the darkness down the street. A long shadow trailed it, gradually dissipating into the gloom of the winter night.

Later, Christine dreamed that the entire world was black. Shadows pale as ghosts slowly appeared, and their eyes blazed with the light of angels and the fire of demons.


	12. Chapter 12

**Many thanks to those who have so kindly reviewed. And a note to those who have reviewed anonymously: many thanks! I'm only sorry I can't respond to your reviews and let you know how grateful I am. :)**

* * *

 _THE GERMAN BOOK EXPOSITION IN BARCELONA: A vision of the cultural labor of National Socialism – a gift from the Reich to Spain_

 _The Exposition to be inaugurated in the assembly hall of the university will be a broad exposition of German books, and will take place under the lofty patronage of the most excellent Minister of National Education._

 _The aforementioned Exposition is of special interest, given the interruption of the cultural interchange between Spain and Germany from 1936 to 1939..._

– La Vanguardia _, February 2, 1941_

Epiphany passed. "The Flying Dutchman," which had enjoyed tremendous success, ended with the holidays. Christine received invitations to sing at social gatherings, most of them at the Ritz Hotel. Erik continued to tutor her in her dressing room at the Victoria and to compose her musical messages in Morse code, but there was a growing tension between them. Sometimes he would snap at Christine for no apparent reason; often he was sarcastic. Christine, for her part, studiously ignored his frequent touches and whatever their meaning might be – and tolerated his bad humor without complaint. She realized vaguely that she was cheating him in some nameless way.

Spanish newspapers continued to give lavish descriptions of spectacular Axis victories in Europe and Africa. They also depicted the desolation and despair of the English population caused by the devastating bombings of London.

Erik chuckled dryly as he leafed through Christine's newspaper in her dressing room. " _La Vanguardia_ is becoming more spectacularly depraved by the day! Why, it's the journalistic equivalent of a mash note to Hitler and Mussolini!"

"That's true. I don't know why I buy it anymore," sighed Christine. "But it does appear that Germany and Italy are going to win the war."

Erik arched his visible brow. "Please do _not_ tell me that you believe this propaganda! The British are receiving some help from the United States and can expect more now that Roosevelt's been elected to a third term. They're also conscripting men into the military over there. And, as I've told you, Hitler's ambitions will soon outmatch his resources. But let's return to the subject of your believing what you read in the Press here. Perhaps during those post-recital gatherings you've heard the name Hans Lazar?"

"No, I don't believe I have."

"Your Nazis are terribly remiss, then! Lazar is only the most powerful and influential member of the German colony in Madrid, and he happens to be the Press liaison for the Germany Embassy. He's married to a Romanian noble, the Baroness of Petrino, and they give lavish parties right in the middle of famished Madrid. He manages a great deal of German capital, which he uses to keep the most influential Spanish journalists in his pocket. What you see in the guise of 'war news' in the local papers is simply propaganda, Christine. Oh, the Nazis may garner victories in the short run, but as Ortega y Gasset says, they're a motor with no brakes.

"In the meantime, I am preparing our way to New York, Christine. There is still much to be done here, it's true. Transporting gold is a tricky business, but I will not have us arrive as paupers..."

Christine remained silent and focused her attention on the sheets of music she was memorizing. Whenever Erik spoke of a future he assumed they would spend together, she felt numb. She knew that she would never leave Barcelona with him, knew that she would wait forever for Raoul, if it came to that. Yet she did not want to injure or alienate Erik by telling him the truth – not yet, at least. Perhaps she would never have to tell him. Perhaps his infatuation with her, or with her voice, would end, and he would leave her. Erik's references to their future together were on the increase. He seemed to be searching for some reaction from her, and she knew she owed him one – but she could not give him the one he _wanted_.

He seemed to read her mind. "No matter what you _think_ , Christine, you will be leaving with me when the time arrives," he said quietly. There was a steel in his voice that did not admit contradictions.

Margarita slapped at the door, and Christine jumped. She turned to say something to Erik, but he had disappeared.

As soon as she opened the door, she knew that something was wrong. Margarita was pale and breathless and quickly closed the door behind her as soon as she entered.

"You know that Gloria's been working on that 'Oscar' situation ever since opening night, when I passed on your message. Well, something's come up. Today. You remember where you met Gloria? Do you have your rationing book? Good. Same place, same discretion. There can be _nobody_ in the shop. Make sure you're not followed! I think somebody saw me, and the place might be under surveillance, so..." Marga seized Christine's arm and nearly dragged her towards her dressing room.

Marga's dressing room was cozy, with a pink divan and embroidered doilies and blankets, watercolor flowers decorating the walls, leg warmers and ballet slippers arranged in a corner, and cushions everywhere. There were several costumes hanging on a rack; Margarita was notorious for not returning costumes. There were also wigs.

"Hmmm," appraised Marga, looking from Christine to the wigs, and she took a chestnut wig and brusquely positioned it over Christine's piled-up hair, her hands so taut and tense that they pushed her friend into a cringe. "Here – take this black mantilla and put it over your head." She quickly opened her dresser drawer and extracted a devotional book, which she tossed to Christine. "You'll look like everybody else on their way back from Mass. And hurry!"

* * *

"Nigel Bowers is indeed collaborating with the Gestapo here," said Gloria as soon as Christine had run up the stairs and entered her salon. "And he's exposed Oscar. Actually, Bowers was collaborating with the Soviet NKVD and giving them information, at least at one time. He knows Oscar was a communist who left Germany for Spain and fought in the International Brigades. He knows Oscar is collaborating with us while pretending to respect Gleichschaltung – submission to Nazi doctrines. You know that Spain honors an agreement it made with Himmler to arrest and repatriate Germans suspected of not supporting Nazism. There won't be any trial for Oscar if he falls into the hands of the Regime. You know what will happen to him. We have Oscar and his wife in a safe place and will smuggle them out of the country if we can, but there's one problem." Gloria had been pacing with an unlit cigarette in her hand, but now she stopped and looked at Christine.

"And the problem is...?"

"Their son, Joséf, is at school today, and neither of his parents can be seen collecting him there. There'll be police posted around the area, but I don't think they know what the child looks like; they're concentrating on the parents. So we're sending _you_ to collect the child early. You're blonde – well, you're _usually_ blonde – and kind of Teutonic-looking, so you can go the the Deutsche Shule on the Calle Moià and collect the boy without attracting too much attention. You look a little like the typical Colegio Aleman mother. I'll need to lend you some of my clothes, you look too down-at-heel..."

* * *

Christine hailed a taxi, which stopped for her immediately. Feigning a German accent, she directed the driver to go the the German school on calle Moià. As the car rattled up the Avenida Diagonal, she looked down at herself in disbelief yet again. Gloria's deep gray pencil skirt and jacket fit her closely and gave her curves she had not realized she had. The high heels were slightly large on her, but her legs and ankles looked attractive in them. She looked and felt like an entirely different person. A jaunty fedora was tipped low over her eyes, and she wore red lipstick.

She alighted from the cab after giving the cabbie a tip generous enough to suit the character she was adopting. Squaring her shoulders, she looked up at the school. It was a large, four-story building including its basement level, and imperial eagles soared in painted relief at the top of the facade. The street was quiet. There was a woman pushing a baby carriage down the sidewalk, and a couple in deep conversation walking in the opposite direction. Christine proceeded forward on her borrowed heels, trying to walk as Gloria would walk – one foot in front of the other, model-style. She clicked up the stairs of the school and through the front doors.

The school's concierge examined the note she pulled out of her purse: Joséf Fischer's mother requested that the child be surrendered to her sister, who would accompany him to a doctor's appointment. The concierge read the note and said something in German to Christine, who shrugged. He stared at her, then abruptly left his chair to walk down a hallway. Christine lifted her chin, trying to appear arrogant, and was relieved when the man returned with Joséf, who looked at her with wide eyes. He was about six and wore the school uniform – shorts with belt, a light brown shirt, and tie. The concierge returned to his desk with a bored expression, and Christine bent to murmur to the little boy in Spanish, "Don't worry, I'm taking you to your mother." She took his hand.

Christine looked at her watch. Four minutes. She took the boy slowly towards the stairs. He was a docile child, carefully trained to respect authority, and he let her lead him without question. Was the sweat between their clasped hands hers or the child's? His grip was too tight on her hand, his breathing too shallow, and Christine realized with a pang that the boy was terrified.

Three minutes. She paused at the bottom of the stairs and waited.

Two...nobody on the sidewalk at this hour. Good.

One...

She approached the curb, and the black Mercedes she was expecting came into view.

"Waiting for a lift, Chelo?" asked the driver. _The correct phrase._

" _Alto alli_! Stop now!" The shouting began as she opened the door for Joséf. The child hesitated, a deer poised on the verge of flight, looking with wide eyes for the source of the noise.

"Get in!" Christine said, and pushed him bodily into the car. As she tried to get in after Joséf, the driver began to move, pulling away from the curb slightly. The shouting was much closer now, and she could hear the sound of feet running...and a gunshot. A quick decision: "Go!" she shouted to the driver, and she slammed the car door shut. If she could divert attention to herself, she would. She quickly kicked Gloria's shoes off her feet and, dropping her purse, she started to run. An alleyway presented itself between buildings, and she hurried through it, but her assailant was closer. This time, she heard the whine of the bullet as it flew just past her head. To her right, the school's extensive patio wall reared high over her head. She threw herself onto it, jumping to hook her fingertips over the top and trying to gain a purchase with her feet on the stones in the wall. A hand grasped her leg, pulling her downward roughly, and she fell, skinning her hands as she went down. A sharp pain radiated up her leg, but she ignored it and twisted around to face her attacker. He was, as she expected, a policeman. His gun was drawn but lowered, and as she fumbled for the cyanide capsule in her sleeve, he jerked the firearm upward. Christine watched in amazement as his arm went up in a seeming burlesque of a fascist salute. The gun flew to the ground beside him, but he paid no attention to it; his hands were working desperately at his neck, and his face was darkening from red to purple. His eyes bulged, and he made a gurgling noise as he collapsed to his knees. A snap of bone, a rattle, and he lay in a heap on the ground, unmoving.

Erik dropped with catlike grace from someplace above, and he hovered over her, his ice-cold hands assessing her. When they reached her ankle, they lingered, and Christine moaned involuntarily. "We've no time," he finally said, more to himself than to her, and he lifted her into his arms. All the noise had attracted attention, and she could hear voices raised in alarm. They were coming closer. Pressed against Erik's chest, she could smell blood. She felt his arm move, and heard the click of steel on steel – a gun of some kind? She could only see his face if she looked up, and very little of that, thanks to the mask. He moved quickly with her, his sinewy muscles strong and supple as he carried her through narrow streets. They twisted and turned in direction until he came to a rudely-made wooden door. He opened it with one brutal kick, exposing hoes, pickaxes, a wheelbarrow, and several buckets. He placed Christine carefully on the ground and replaced the wooden door carefully, working with his fingers on bits of its broken hinges.

There was some little sunlight coming in from above and under the door, but the musty storage room was otherwise in darkness. Christine's eyes were slow to adjust, and she did not see Erik at all, until his eyes became visible as he turned his head away from the door.

"You're injured. I smelled the blood," Christine murmured.

"No," he said simply, and in the gloom she saw him reach into his cloak and pull something out – the lasso. She smelled the blood on it afresh and felt a chill rack her.

He hovered over her, and she saw his handkerchief in the half-light. He applied it to her forehead. She felt his hands on her ankle, and she tensed in pain.

"It's only a sprain, but a bad one," he diagnosed. Voices and footsteps sounded outside, and Erik's eyes disappeared as he turned to regard the door. Christine saw the outline of a revolver in left hand. In his right hand, he grasped his lasso, and she could see his fingertips working with it. They waited. Christine felt the cyanide capsule slide past her cuff; she had loosened it from its place in her sleeve. She fidgeted with it quietly. The noise faded. Minutes passed.

" _What_ do you have in your hand?" His eyes were narrowed and hovered over her once more.

She closed her hand into a fist over the capsule before she realized the enormity of the mistake.

"...And _what_ do you think you are hiding from me?" He wrenched the capsule out of her hand. His eyes disappeared again, but he had not turned his head.

"I will _kill_ Miss Gloria Munroe," he hissed, finally. His eyes glowed hot now above her with terrifying rage.

"Please, Erik, no..."

"She's treated you as expendable. She will understand that you are _not_ to be used for errands such as today's – if she wishes to live."


	13. Chapter 13

_...y, pues él rompe recatos / y ablanda al juez más severo, / poderoso caballero es Don Dinero_

 _–_ _Quevedo_

"I only have a thousand pesetas, and it took all I had to get my hands on that much! Please do what you can, Don José Luis. I know you come from a good family and can speak for my Ramon with the eloquence his cause requires." The old man seemed close to tears, which made Oscuro irritable. Tears were unmanly, whether you had a son who was condemned to death or not.

The two men shared a quiet table at a cafe near the police station. Oscuro enjoyed coffee, but his companion, Lluis Prats, ordered nothing. It was exasperating. Still, Prats knew something of Oscuro's distinguished background and treated him with the respect due him, and that mollified him a great deal. Oscuro did not know that word of mouth had spread among families of prisoners: _Say something about the asshole's "illustrious" family; he's an arriviste and thrives on flattery. People have been known to talk him down to eight hundred pesetas with just the right amount of subtlety, but I'd bring at least a thousand. Just in case._

"There's no way you could get your hands on two hundred more?" Oscuro asked as a matter of principle. "Your son not only was a lawyer at the service of the Republic – he actually _fought_ on the side of those atheists."

Prats groaned and looked stricken. "Would that I could _dream_ of getting more..."

"I make no promises, but I will try to see what I can do. I may not get him released, but I might be able to get his sentence commuted. Even if he's released, the State will not permit him to exercise his profession anymore."

"I understand, Don José Luis." Prats knew the situation. The Regime had fired the teachers who had worked so hard under the Republic. They had replaced them with people whose sole qualification was loyalty to the Regime. Professionals such as attorneys had faced a similar scourge.

As Prats collected his hat and walked out of the cafe, Oscuro discreetly patted the bulky envelope in his suit pocket. Another thousand pesetas. He would, of course, have to give certain people in the Justice administration their cut, but he was still making a tidy fortune. There were enough Republicans condemned to death to guarantee riches.

He could have any woman he wanted now, he was sure of it – with or without matrimony. It was just a question of price. It still amused him to go to social gatherings and see how the mothers practically clawed at each other to introduce him to their daughters.

The thought of Christine Daaé made Oscuro grit his teeth, though. She had been repulsed by him, he had seen it. Where did a woman who had lain with that Deschamps freak get the nerve to be disgusted with _him_? He would be doing her a favor if he made her his mistress, although he would never consider such a thing. Still, he had been visiting Madame Genevieve's exclusive bordello lately, where a gentleman client was treated as he deserved – with coffee and polite conversation before a discreet exhibition of the goods on offer. Madame Genevieve was actually Mari Carmen Machado from a small town in the province of Granada, and her French accent was as false as her teeth, but who cared? Her flat was clean, her girls were clean, and she offered all the comforts of home. She catered to his need for a blonde Scandinavian-type girl – of course it involved a wig and a girl with a Roman nose, but he was never in a mood to complain when he had finished with her.

It occurred to Oscuro that tomorrow would be Wednesday, and there would be another recital at the Victoria. He would be sure to attend the party afterwards.

* * *

"Gloria received a visit from beyond the grave," said Marga without preamble. They were on their way to the post-recital reception, walking together down one of the Victoria's many circuitous hallways. "Whatever your gentleman friend did, he was, in her words, 'ghastly and intimidating.' She's not going to send you out on errands anymore..."

Christine groaned. "I begged him not to do that. I really did!"

"...and she's increasing your pay. She says your lover's someone rather important and congratulates you on landing a rather big fish." Marga looked at her curiously.

"It's complicated," Christine responded. "Did...did the family make it to its destination?"

"Thanks to you, Oscar and his family are safe now."

They entered the reception room, Christine still hobbling slightly. Erik had treated her sprain miraculously.

As usual, the British arts patrons were socializing in a klatch on one side of the room. While Marga joined Gonzalo Fernández, Christine ordered a cocktail from the bar.

"Why, if it's not Señora Cristina! You were in fine voice today, as always," remarked a voice at her elbow. Christine turned to find José Luis Oscuro smiling at her, his eyes glinting like dark flint.

"Thank you," said Christine, smiling tightly. She turned slightly away from him so that her back was to the bar and she faced the crowd. Carlotta was speaking with some Italians, but stopped to stare daggers at her.

"You know that Señora Carlotta has charged you with spying, don't you?" Oscuro said conversationally.

Christine's blood turned to ice, but she studied the crowd as if she was intensely interested in every person she saw. "Nobody has questioned me or arrested me, so I suppose people realize that she's held a grudge against me for a long time. That's nothing new."

"Of course not, of course not. And Gonzalo Fernández is careful to shelter you from any and all accusations. But you evidently have someone more powerful protecting you now." He reached for the ruby necklace that she was wearing and took one of the stones between his forefinger and thumb, leaning forward to examine it. Christine could feel his hot breath on her skin as his fingers brushed her neck, and her throat worked convulsively. She almost didn't hear Oscuro's next question over the roaring in her ears. "Would you care to tell me about him?"

"Sr. Oscuro, you flatter me. Nobody feels that I deserve precious gems enough to give me the genuine item. This necklace is false."

"You're lying. It's unwise to lie to me, you know." Oscuro still held onto her necklace.

"Christine, don't you think it's time you mingled with some of those English ladies?" Margarita's voice rescued Christine from imminent tears.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Marga! I'm just being lazy, I guess," she replied, glancing at Marga gratefully, and Oscuro surrendered his grip on her necklace. She collected her cocktail and moved away from the bar.

"There's the little communist _spy_ ," sneered Carlotta, and seized Christine by the arm as she was approaching a British diplomat and his wife. The couple looked up in surprise, then turned away to speak with each other in low voices. The elegant group of Italians that had been enjoying a lively conversation with Carlotta – up till now - looked ill at ease, even ashamed.

"That's enough, Señora!" Oscuro intervened, removing Carlotta's grip from Christine's hand with a quick twist of the Italian diva's wrist.

"How _dare_ you? Am I the only one who cares that this little spying whore is still running around free to spread her Judeo-Masonic lies?" The skin on Carlotta's face and neck had gone splotchy with rage. "Are you never going to arrest this Freemason _subversive_ – not you, Captain Fernández, nor you, Señor Oscuro?"

"But Carlotta...I'm just a _singer_!" protested Christine, with a hint of irony in her voice. She almost felt sorry for the diva. The woman's accusations were so far-fetched, so clearly designed to fit in with the worst fears of the Regime – Freemasonry and communism – that nobody would ever believe them. Now that Carlotta had made such a fool of herself, nobody would want make any similar accusations in the near future.

"Madam, I don't believe you need worry about the Freemasons – they were all murdered by your _dictator,_ " came a comment in a thick British accent. _Not from the diplomat or his wife_. All eyes turned towards Edith Sneed, and a collective sigh seemed to run through the room. Edith was known for saying exactly what she thought whenever she wanted and wherever she went. Her status as an elderly dowager shielded her from reproach, and she was a great favorite at social events. "Come, dear," she said in English, and placed a doughy arm around Christine's shoulder.

Christine permitted herself to be shepherded away from Carlotta, who was now engaged in a spirited quarrel with Oscuro.

"Aren't these little after-parties becoming delightful?" Edith commented dryly. "I don't think this will happen again, though. Madam Carlotta has surpassed herself today. She's terribly jealous of you, isn't she?"

"I can't imagine why."

"False modesty! I can't abide it! You know perfectly well that your voice is superior to hers. It's extraordinary...everyone agrees. I really don't know why your managers keep that Carlotta on, unless it's for the publicity her scandalous behavior gives this theater. The way she tortures German is shocking to us all – and we're at war with Germany, mind you. We're getting a little sick of Wagner! These little weekly recitals are a splendid idea. I do love _Zarzuela_ and other lighter types of opera! I must say, though, that those pieces you yourself compose impress everyone these days. They're just wonderful! So much better than when you first started that little song-writing hobby of yours..."

"I have help writing my compositions these days. I'm really hopeless as a composer, Miss Edith. And that's not false modesty on my part."

"I see. Whether that's the case or not, you're much too good for this theater, you know. Have you thought of where you might go next?" Edith arched an elegant eyebrow and rummaged through her purse, eventually taking out a cigarette case and a bakelite cigarette holder.

"'Where I might go next'? I don't think I'll go to the Liceo or to Madrid, if that's what you mean," Christine replied.

"I mean London, Paris, Milan, or New York," said Edith, clicking her lighter shut and tossing her head to the side to exhale a puff of smoke.

Christine thought of Erik. He had been occupying her mind for greater periods of time lately, and she did not like it. "Oh, I wouldn't dream of leaving Barcelona. I was born here, you know. I'm Spanish."

A moue of disgust crossed Edith's features. "Young lady, besides possessing the makings of a great career in the opera, you have some intelligence. Do you mean to languish here in a Roman Catholic military dictatorship? You're quite free, as you're a widow now – pardon my bluntness, but it's true. You've no children to hold you back. If you were to marry again in this country, do you have any idea what would become of you? Franco's just passed a law making any kind of contraception illegal, dear – you can't even _instruct_ somebody about how not to have babies! And if you have more than two children, Franco will give _your husband_ fifteen pesetas per child each month until you've had twelve. After twelve children, he'll give your husband fifty pesetas per additional child! Isn't that a wonderful formula for killing a woman? You can't get divorced anymore, because that's illegal now - you have to wait for the poor sod to snuff it...I'd probably put the man out of his misery myself!

"All the wonderful opportunities women had during the Second Republic, gone now. Oh, yes, I've been speaking with friends here who can no longer be judges or magistrates because they are women, who can no longer work in the stock exchange, who can no longer work in the diplomatic corps. Nothing prestigious! Women here are to be mothers, nuns, whores, or teachers. Please don't look so shocked, you know it's true."

Christine felt someone's gaze upon her as she listened to Edith. A quick glance revealed that José Luis Oscuro was back at the bar, staring at her. She decided that she was definitely not going to tell Erik about Oscuro's unwelcome attentions. She had already caused enough trouble as things were.

* * *

"How went the reception yesterday afternoon?" Erik loomed tall over Christine as he examined her, his luminous eyes unblinking. It was always this way just after his arrival in her dressing room every day: he would take inventory. Anything new that had happened since he had last seen her was to be reported – if not, he would know she was hiding things from him. She did not know whether this intuition was due to his seemingly constant watch over her, or to intelligent guesswork. Erik did seem to have an encyclopedic knowledge of her, and she knew better than to lie to him.

"There was a bit of a scandal at the reception," she finally said. "Carlotta accused me of being a communist spy at the service of Judeo-Masonry. In front of everybody. Loudly. It didn't go over well for her. I wonder what she was thinking."

"She does _not_ think. If she's not more stupid, it's because she fails to practice. You spoke with other people besides Carlotta, I presume?" His eyes remained locked on hers.

"Oh, Edith Sneed buttonholed me, and I ended up talking with her most of the evening." It was a good time to change the subject, Christine decided, and continued, "Most of the encoded information I'm relaying has to do with planned sabotages now. Some of the shipments of tungsten will be affected. Will your... _business_ be affected?"

Erik smiled coldly. "No, indeed...though my competitors will receive a taste of my indignation. I warned them, however."

"My gosh...you're _involved_ in this!"

"Oh, I've long since stopped selling tungsten to the Nazis, or anything else. I've made enough money from all that. I do enjoy sabotaging those who think they can pick up my business where I left it. Do you disapprove?"

Christine contemplated the moral no man's land the panorama presented, and shook her head. There was something else she needed to tell Erik, and she forged ahead. "Thank you again for the radiators, Erik. You have no idea how grateful I am. Last winter was so hard, and poor Mamá had chilblains, and she was so sick to begin with..."

Christine and Mamá Valerio had spent the past winter in the kitchen, with their arms and legs tucked under the heavy wool tablecloth of their brazier table. An old brass brazier was situated underneath the table and needed to be fed precious charcoal once in a while. They had run out of charcoal regularly, and Christine went on desperate errands through chilly alleyways in search of wood, paper, or cardboard with which to feed the fire.

"I'm so grateful, Erik," she repeated. The men who had worked to install the Roca furnace boiler and radiator system in their building had been sent by the local government, they said, but Christine had known better. Fortunately, the building was a small one, and the installation of the wrought-iron radiators had been quick. The next marvel that had arrived was a large supply of coal. Coal was a good controlled by the government, so the shipment was completely illegal, but neither Christine nor her neighbors were disposed to complain. They were warm now.

Erik was closer now. Christine did not know whether she had approached him or whether he had approached her, but she was close to him - close enough to see each dark eyelash as he looked down at her, every pore on his exposed cheek. She stood on tiptoe and kissed him on that cheek before she knew what she was doing. It was a chaste kiss, yet slow enough to be tender. A Moorish fragrance she half-remembered from a visit to Tangier inebriated her senses. She clung to Erik, swooning slightly. When she recovered herself, she found his arms around her. Springing out of the embrace, she murmured an apology and stood several feet away from him, staring at the floor. If she had looked at him, she would have seen the flash of frustration and need in his eyes. He stood stiffly, as if he were forcing every atom in his body to stay where it was and losing in the effort.

"You will come to visit me soon?" he finally murmured.

"I...I'll try to see you after the Winter Festival at the Ritz on Saturday," she said.

There was no lesson that day.


	14. Chapter 14

_Dresses must not be so short that they do not cover most of the legs; it's not tolerable that they only reach knee-length. A plunging neckline is immodest, and there are some that are so audacious as to be gravely sinful thanks to the dishonest intentions they reveal, or the scandal they stir up. It is immodest not to cover the arms at least to the elbows. It is immodest not to wear stockings. Even little girls must wear skirts that are knee-length, and those over twelve must wear stockings. Little boys should not go around with their thighs exposed._

 _– Cardinal Pla y Deniel, Archbishop of Toledo and primate of Spain_

Francesc Folguera was doing his job well, José Luis Oscuro decided. The church of San José de Oriol had been left a smoking ruin during the response to the National uprising in 1936. Folguera was the architect in charge of restoring the church, and much of the basilica looked better now than when it was inaugurated fifteen years before. The facade of architect Sagnier's Renaissance-style church was intact, its quoins and Venetian mosaic frieze still gloriously fresh against the red brick of the twin red brick towers. Restoring the entirety of what had been ruined indoors would take time, though – it was being done with great care.

Oscuro had noticed the smell of fresh plaster when he entered the church to attend Mass. He had listened to D. Efrén's sermon with interest.

 _No condemnations of women's clothing:_ "It goes against modesty to wear short sleeves in a way that doesn't cover the arm at least down to the elbow..." The archbishop of Toledo – a Barcelones - and many other priests spent a great deal of time obsessing over inches below the knee and every other inch of the female anatomy.

 _No messages in favor of the Nazis and the Italians and how they were saving Christianity in western Europe._

 _No messages against the evils of communism._

D. Efrén's message had been nearly subversive: One should love one's neighbor. What kind of message was that? What kind of a priest _was_ he? Cardenal Goma and a host of bishops had placed Franco under a canopy like a living saint, had blessed him, had offered his victorious sword to the Christ of Lepanto. Where was Father Efrén's ambition? Didn't he know how to suck up to the Regime?

The priest emerged from the sacristy and made his way toward a door at the side of the nave. Oscuro rose from the pew to intercept him, issuing a quick greeting. Father Efrén's immediate response was an almost-step back. He recovered himself with a quick " _Hombre_ , José Luis!" and a slap on the back with handshake, though.

"Could we please talk for a moment, Father? And could you treat our conversation with the same secrecy as you would a confession, please?"

A shadow of doubt crossed Don Efrén's features, but he nodded. They went to a recondite corner of the church where nobody would hear their conversation, and Oscuro began in a quiet voice.

"I understand you're getting some heat from your hierarchy, Father." Oscuro waited. He did not know the full extent of the bishops' displeasure with Father Efrén, but he would gauge it from the priest's reaction. He did not have to wait long.

"I will not distribute Nazi propaganda to my parishioners. I will not. And if this is about my protest against the conditions in the women's prison – in the Carcel de les Corts, I refuse to back off or apologize. The Sisters of Charity are exploiting those poor women shamelessly in the fields, and there are too many deaths due to overcrowding. They're all sick with starvation and tuberculosis! Not only the women prisoners, but their _children_ who are in prison with them! How can we –?"

"Calm yourself, Father. I may be with the political police, but I have no desire to make your life difficult." Oscuro let the information sink in, along with its implicit threat. Father Efrén had no prior knowledge of the fact that he was with the secret police. It gave him some perverse satisfaction to torment the man who had seen him humiliated at the hands of Deschamps. "Many religious orders suffered a great deal, thanks to the Reds. Why shouldn't they pay them back with interest? Those women are nothing but communist sluts, and the firing squad's too good for them. As for their brats, they will find glory in Heaven, won't they, Father?" Oscuro grinned maliciously at the priest's expression of shock. "But that's beside the point. The bishops are not pleased with you, perhaps because you aren't cooperating with the goals of our glorious New Spain – or perhaps because you aren't enforcing the return to morality on your flock. But you certainly are popular with your congregation! This church is a dusty mess, but it was filled to the rafters for Mass. And I think a popular priest like you should continue at the helm of this congregation."

"And I suppose you have some suggestion for me in the interest of my continuity here?" The priest's voice was flat, tired.

"I notice that you are now confessor and spiritual adviser to Doña Cristina Daaé. You look alarmed, Father! Maybe it's because you know the depth of her sin. She has fallen in with Herr Erik Deschamps and is frustrating the good work he was doing for our glorious country and our alliance with Germany. I know it is hard to believe, but let me put this in terms you can understand, Father: She is Delilah to Herr Deschamps' Samson. I don't know what interest she has in unmanning him, but it's borne its poisonous fruits. Deschamps is no longer working for us.

"You probably wonder why we haven't arrested the woman yet. She has faced accusations before, but she is now popular with people influential in the Falange and even arts-loving Nazis. People don't see this woman for what she is! But you, Father, know a great deal about her, and with _your_ accusation we could finally come up with the credibility we need to sway people. _You_ have credibility. All we need you to do is give testimony -"

"You can stop right there, José Luis. I'll not do any such thing!"

Oscuro's voice dropped to a near-whisper. "It would be easy to have _you_ arrested. Where would your _sister_ Rocio be then?"

"What are you suggesting?"

"Only what everyone knows to be true. Rocio is not your sister. We know that much."

The priest ran a hand over his face, lifted his eyes to the ceiling, and finally replied. "No, she is not my sister. She is my wife."

"Do you think I give a damn whether she's your wife or your whore? I just want you to do what's right for your country and cooperate with us." Oscuro lifted his chin and looked down his nose at Father Efrén, who seemed to have sunk into the pew. "Come on, Father, do you think you're the only priest who's married hereabouts? You've given your Rocio more honor than most priests give their _queridas_. But you'll want to protect her from what could happen to you, won't you?"

Father Efrén straightened and looked Oscuro directly in the eyes. "I won't do your dirty work for you. Neither Rocio nor I will consent to such a thing. We'd die first."

Oscuro sighed in mock sadness. "I was afraid it would come to this." He pulled an envelope out of his coat pocket which he handed to the priest. "This, as you will see, is a list of three names. These are the names of three men in the Prision Modelo awaiting execution. And they _will_ be executed if nobody with the proper connections intervenes. I happen to have the proper connections, Father. People see me as a guardian angel capable of having their relatives and friends pardoned or their sentences commuted. I perform these good works quite often, you see. Would you like to see how generous I am? I could give a glowing report to your superiors regarding how cooperative you are with the State, I could forget Rocio is anything but your sister...and I could save the lives of these three men. All this in exchange for your testimony against one insignificant sinner of a woman."

The priest's hands trembled on the envelope, and he looked at Oscuro with an expression of horror. Even his lips trembled. "You...you can't mean this!"

Oscuro rose to leave, crossing himself as if he had been at prayer. "But I do, Father. My office is at the station in Las Ramblas. Come by when you're ready to speak. You don't have forever, though."

* * *

The Barcelona Ritz hotel was now a favorite haunt of the luxury-loving officials of the Third Reich. It was also, in Gloria's words, "a nest of spies." It had returned to its opulence of days before the war, and Christine looked around the ballroom in amazement. It was festooned with tinsel, balloons and brightly-colored crepe for the Fiestas de Invierno, and an orchestra played a popular _copla_ at one end of the room. The people in extravagant costumes, the champagne, the canapes, and the raucous laughter – all belied the misery that lived outside in the real world.

The "Fiestas de Invierno," or Winter Festival, was really a euphemism for what this event actually was: Carnaval. Since the Regime had prohibited any celebration of Carnaval, with its usual threat of jail time, even the expatriate community in Barcelona had to be discreet about its partying. All was ostensibly done for charity, to help the victims of the fire that had devastated the city of Santander in northern Spain a week earlier. In Madrid, the Brazilian and Italian embassies were celebrating costume balls, too – all in benefit of the Santander victims.

Heads turned as Christine and Marga entered the ballroom together. Marga had dressed as the Dying Swan, and Christine as Brünnhilde. Since the Teatro Gran Victoria had required them to attend the ball, both women had thought it suitable to raid the costume department there. Christine had devoted much of the night before to making alterations to her costume, but she decided that the effect was satisfactory. Under her winged helmet, her fair hair cascaded in waves over her bare shoulders. The rest of her simple white dress fit loosely, but Christine had discovered, too late, that the thin material betrayed her curves more than was considered modest. She cursed Carlotta's taste in fabric and held her shield protectively over her midsection.

"This place sure has changed since it was the Gastronomic Center Number One," Margarita commented.

Christine nodded and smiled ruefully. The Ritz had been taken for use as a soup kitchen during the civil war, but no trace of that now remained. "Look, there are our esteemed managers!"

Marga followed Christine's gaze, and both women looked at each other and laughed. Lluis Junyent was dressed as the foolish Rey Carnestoltes, complete with long nose, colorful coat and breeches, and the fool's crown. But Jordi Soler was even more extravagant: he was dressed as old lady Vella Cuaresma.

"Soler is the perfect lady!" exclaimed Marga. It was true. Their manager did look the perfect old crone, with a babushka, grey wig, dress and apron – and seven legs. He held a dried codfish in his hand, which he slapped his companion with at every opportunity.

"Could you please explain what those two are supposed to be?" asked a Gypsy who had just approached them. _Gloria_.

"The Rey Carnestoltes represents forbidden meat...and other pleasures. The Vella Cuaresma represents Lent, and her seven legs are the seven weeks of the Lenten season. They litigate against each other on Ash Wednesday, but Vella Cuaresma always wins, and poor Carnestoltes is condemned to burn in effigy," explained Marga. "Will you tell me my fortune?"

"You are about to meet a very jealous lover," said Gloria in ominous tones, and left them abruptly.

Don Quixote was approaching them quickly, his shaving basin rattling with anger. "What the devil possessed you to wear _that_?"

"Good evening to you, too, Gonzalo," replied Margarita sweetly, but her smile was icy.

He shook his head emphatically, and white powder from his hair and false beard floated around him in a cloud. He lowered his voice. "Anybody can see your thighs!"

"I'm a ballerina. People see my thighs all the time."

"From a distance, not close up!" Gonzalo's tone sounded like a kettle about to boil.

Marga gave him a look of bored defiance. "Look, _cielo_ , it isn't as if I'm your wife. My status is pretty clear, thanks to your mother."

"I'll just go look for...some champagne," interjected Christine, and escaped the scene. She looked back once; Gonzalo had turned bright red and no longer cared who heard his reproaches. Fortunately, the orchestra was playing a lively version of " _A la Lima y y al Limón_ ," which succeeded in drowning him out, for the most part. She made her way through the motley crowd, catching bits of banal conversation in German, Spanish, Italian, some English, some French. Many attendees, she noted, wore masks. She was reminded of Erik and her promise to try to visit him after the party. _No_ , she decided, _I won't visit him. I mustn't_. Until she had met Erik, she had worked to keep her memory of Raoul as clear and painful as if he'd marched away from her yesterday. She had exercised her mind, thinking of the blue of his eyes, the brilliance of his quick smile, and the little scar at the side of his chin. Her heart had ached regularly with longing for him. Now, she found, the ache had become a dull echo of itself, and Raoul's image was becoming hazier by the day. Erik inhabited her thoughts more and more, and she was beginning to hear his voice in her dreams. She needed to put an end to all temptation. _I told him I'd try to visit him. Try..._ Perhaps he had noticed that she had emphasized the word "try." He missed very little.

A hot hand clasped her bare upper arm, and she turned to see who had stopped her. "Where's your ruby necklace tonight?" José Luis Oscuro was dressed as Miguel de Cervantes, complete with ruff and bandaged left hand. Christine was grateful that he did not have the use of both hands and extricated herself from his grasp.

"Captain Oscuro! I'm beginning to think you're not a gentleman," she chided with a smile designed to sweeten the reproach. Instinct told her that an appeal to his manners would hit home.

He bowed as deeply as the crowd around them would permit. "I beg your pardon, my lady," he said, sweeping his plumed hat off with a flourish. "I merely wished to ask you to dance." His eyes glinted up at her like dark pebbles on a cold beach.

A winter breeze ran through Christine, but she decided not to offend Oscuro by refusing a dance. "Whyever not?" she said, trying to unclench her jaw, and she permitted herself to be led towards the orchestra.

Running her arm through the strap of the shield, she positioned it so that it was between herself and Oscuro. Chevalier's hit " _La Pomme_ " was being played now, and she permitted Oscuro to lead her into a foxtrot. He was a good dancer, but Christine could not relax. His bandaged left hand rested at her waist, but his right hand held hers. She could scarcely bear the feeling of his skin against hers. As the song ended, she pretended to stumble. "Oh, I'm so sorry...I thought my sprain had healed," she explained and began to turn away from him.

"Then you shouldn't try to climb walls," came Oscuro's voice.

"Climb walls? Oh, you're joking!" Christine forced a laugh, and continued moving away from him among the press of people. Inside, she was icy.

There were exclamations and a commotion coming from somewhere near the entrance. At the top of the steps, a macabre presence stood over the crowd, surveying the ballroom. The plumed black velvet hat topped a visage that was half death mask, half skull. Murmurs and appreciative applause rippled through the crowd. Christine could see the apparition search the ballroom with a slow arc of his head from left to right, until his glowing eyes settled on her. He started forward, and the crowd parted like the Red Sea. His black doublet was covered with a sash with the red embroidered words " _Memento mori_!" A cape seemed to float behind him, and a sword of Toledo steel hung at his hip. Finally, he stood before Christine, looking down at her, and silently offered her his black-gloved hand.

Oscuro was forgotten. The feeling of relief Christine felt at seeing Erik pulsed through her warmly. Nobody could harm her when he was with her. She placed her hand in his.

The orchestra played a slow version of " _Perfidia_ ," and Christine settled into a smooth foxtrot with Erik. Her shield was now slung onto her back, and she looked up, smiling, into his warm golden eyes. "I hadn't expected you to come tonight. You certainly know how to make an entrance!"

"How could I not come? A costume ball is perhaps the only opportunity I have to see you and be seen with you as an ordinary man."

The sadness in his tone goaded her. "You're _extraordinary_ , Erik, and you know it." She said it softly. He was haughty, arrogant, and very aware of his abilities.

She watched his eyes, and in spite of the gruesome mask she could tell he was smiling. It was different, being with Erik like this, in a crowded ballroom. Her troubles fell away from her – no worries about what might happen next. Her teacher and mentor was now simply a man who was dancing with her. And she was simply a woman, for once. So many identities: diva, daughter, student, spy... _wife_? The last word niggled at her, but she looked up at Erik once more and forgot about it completely. They danced.


	15. Chapter 15

_Come with me, I said, and no one knew  
where, or how my pain throbbed,  
no carnations or barcaroles for me,  
only a wound that love had opened. _  
– _Pablo Neruda, "Soneto VII"_

"However did you manage to get _pheasant_?" asked Christine, as she downed the remnants of another excellent glass of Ribera del Duero wine. Erik had insisted that she fulfill her promise to visit him in his home under Montjuic after the party. She had accompanied him willingly and found that he had dinner for two waiting for them. He had planned the evening carefully.

"I know people who hunt and do not object to a little more pocket money," Erik replied. "Do you like it?"

"It's delicious. It's the first time I've had pheasant," Christine admitted, ashamed of her lack of sophistication.

Erik arched a brow and smiled, and she felt the sudden suspicion that he was chalking up a victory against Raoul. She and her husband had been poor, but only because he had sacrificed everything to marry her. It had been humiliating for him. He had been rich for too long to learn to ply a trade, and she had been the one bringing home a meager income. He had come alive when the war had started and he had found himself useful. The realization did not give Christine pain anymore. After two and a half years, she could now accept it.

Now she wondered about the things Father Efrén had said about Erik. "I suppose you've always been accustomed to nice things like pheasant," she began cautiously.

He offered her fresh cheese and quince preserves, then studied her for a moment. She dropped her eyes. "That meddlesome priest has awakened your curiosity about my past." His voice seemed calm, but she noticed that he drew out his sibilants until they hissed. His long fingers played a tense staccato on the eyelet tablecloth.

"Father Efrén comforted my father before his execution, and was kind enough to bring me his watch afterwards. We became friends. I confided in him, and we did speak about you just a little. And, of course...I've been wondering how...how you two happen to know each other. You met him during the war?" She kept her eyes trained on the holes in the eyelet.

"He's a Franciscan, but he's well-educated enough to be a Jesuit. We discussed theology quite a lot, especially the concept of mercy. He requested that I be merciful, you see. My line of work has little to do with mercy! But one supposes that the Church has everything to do with mercy. 'Where's the mercy, Father, in a Church that backs this war with glee, that seeks only power and therefore sides with power?' Oh, I made him suffer! The one good priest I knew, and I made him suffer over his priesthood. I did my best to make him doubt the Almighty and let me in peace, but he did neither. Instead, he worried over the state of my soul – as if I had a soul, or so I thought then." Erik looked at Christine, contemplating her. "What did he tell you about me?"

"He said you had a bad mother." She could not bring herself to remind him that he had been unloved.

"A 'bad mother'? The poor woman was simply unprepared to deal with a monstrous child like me. I was a living reminder of her sin. She had become pregnant by a student whose lust for the flesh exceeded his affection for her. When her pregnancy was discovered, she was cast out of the family home in disgrace. And when I was born, my face was testimony to the depth of her downfall. Had I been normal in appearance, superstitious people would not have blamed her so – and superstitious, ignorant people are not often kind. If she tended to be heavy of hand when she used a belt on me, who could blame her? If she could not stand the sight of me, who could blame her? Now she sees only the worms, as she's been dead these ten years, at any rate. What else did that meddling priest say about me?"

Christine swallowed. "That you were sold to a carnival as a human oddity."

Erik barked a laugh. "Is that what he said? Either he's lying or he misunderstood me. I worked quite willingly as 'The Human Corpse.' Don't you think my stage name was appropriate? If any selling was done, it was I who sold myself. And why not? Why should I not profit from something that has always been my ruin? I was able to indulge my love of books, of music, and of architecture. No challenge of intellect was equal to me. I became restless for more, and I traveled."

"You went to Iran..."

"Among other places. Yes, I spent the most time working for Reza Shah, the leader there. I was an architect and good at planning as well, and he happened to be modernizing the country. He established a great infrastructure in a very few years, but he was not without opposition." Erik paused. "He has tried to counterbalance Russian and British imperial interests through trade with Germans. His country is in possession of much-needed petroleum reserves. This war does not bode well for Reza Khan's future."

He steepled his fingertips together, lost in thought. Christine glanced at the clock on the sideboard: It was midnight. The candlelight cast long shadows on Isabeline furnishings that never saw daylight.

"Mamá Valerio will worry," she said, picking up her plate to take it to the kitchen.

He was beside her in an instant and, taking the dish, put it gently down. "You are to stay here tonight. I've sent a message to your guardian."

She looked up at him, her eyes wide. He loomed over her in the shadows, his white half-mask reflecting the candlelight, and the intensity of his gaze frightened her. Had he taken too much wine with dinner? He had made a show of picking at the pheasant, but he had imbibed liberally. Something deep within her tingled and pooled.

She rallied. "I don't think it seemly for me to spend the night here. I've already had to bribe the _sereno_ so that he won't go prattling to people about the wear and tear on my feminine morals."

"I could kill him for you," offered Erik pleasantly. A hand tested the texture of her hair, which was still loose over her bare shoulders.

"No!" Christine jumped slightly and moved backwards, but he moved with her. "I don't want you to kill anyone, please."

"He has, by your own admission, blackmailed you. Does he think you are defenseless?"

"No, no; you've misunderstood. He's just like so many people, just trying to live. I can't blame him. Please, Erik..." His hand had moved to her bare back, and once again, she was aware of the thinness of the material shrouding her body.

"Very well; if you do not wish me to touch him, then I will not. I am at your feet." They had moved to the darkest corner of the room, and his eyes fairly blazed against the gloom.

"You can't be...I'm not free," Christine asserted.

"You're completely free. Tell me that you do not want this," he taunted, and his lips brushed her neck. The roughness of his chin, the spiced fragrance of his cologne, the heat of his breath...all enveloped her senses.

Christine had known what it was to be touched by a man. It was relegated to the sweet haze of memory, lost in the confines of her mind. Yet this was something headier than she had ever known. Erik's instincts were unerring down to the last millimeter of his every touch. His fingers grazed her back, her hips, and touched her breasts through the thin material of her costume. Her lips parted with need.

"No!" She recovered herself, wrenching away from him and moving back towards the light. She trembled with the effort, willing herself to take deep breaths. Without looking at Erik, she felt his raptor gaze, sensed him moving in a careful semicircle until he was positioned in the half-light, poised for the right second.

She closed her eyes, and whispered a prayer for strength. " _Domine, tu mihi semper nibh vis necessaria..."_ She still trembled.

"Christine, look at me." His voice was a magnet sheathed in velvet. He was closer now.

"... _et cum sit infirma, credo in te..."_ Even her voice, which she had learned to control so well, betrayed her and trembled now. The heat within her continued to spread its tendrils downward. She shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut.

" _Look at me, damn you!"_

She felt herself slammed against his hard chest, his iron grip on her. Slave to some involuntary reflex, she looked up, encountered his eyes, and was lost. The infinite need, the pain, and the hunger she saw within them claimed her. "Erik..."

His kiss was urgent, harsh, long, relentless, and he pressed against her now. She could feel his desire, and she could no longer deny her own. Erik drew back only once and, looking into her eyes, read her silent assent. Then he took her into the darkness of her bedroom.

* * *

 _What have I done?_ Christine awakened to the thought. In the complete darkness, all senses non-visual were sharpened: his cologne impregnated her skin, her lips tasted of his, and a pleasant pain throbbed between her thighs. She could hear nothing but absolute silence, though, and she began to move her hands over the fine fibers of the bedclothes in order to orient herself. Her fingers bumped against something: Erik's mask.

 _So now I'm an adulteress_. She caressed the supple white leather of the mask. _And I slept with a man who kidnapped me by way of introduction._ No; that was not fair. She knew now why Erik had been so desperate that he had not thought he could present himself to her as an ordinary man. It was not just his disfigurement. He knew that being seen with him would be dangerous to her. Dancing together last night at the ball had been exhilarating for both of them.

Where was Raoul now? She tried to recall the memory of his touch and failed. Shame washed over her. He had sacrificed everything to marry her, and now what had she done? _But where are you, Raoul?_

The dark air surrounding her suddenly seemed charged, and Erik's weight pressed down upon her. The glow of his eyes was savage in its intensity, and she felt his fingers upon her once more. Her treacherous arms received him.

* * *

"Gloria's gone."

Christine looked up in surprise as Margarita seated herself across from her at the _Fragata_ cafe. "What do you mean by _gone_?" Her heart was in her throat. What if Erik had...?

"Don't worry, she's just been recalled to the U.S. Apparently, _someone_ told her superiors about a Nazi collaborator she'd become involved with around Christmas. Getting into romantic entanglements is a definite no-no in this business," said Marga.

Christine gave her a pointed look.

" _What?_ You know that I have to be involved with Gonzalo, and as for your _amado_...you've hooked the big one. From what Gloria told me before she left – and mind you, she was very upset – you've managed to get your man to turn his coat entirely."

"She should have been fired for her absolute lack of discretion!" Christine's indignation rose hot within her.

" _Tranquila, chica._ She confided in me but not in other people." Marga looked around the bar cautiously, but it was empty. "Believe it or not, I'm glad Gloria's out. She didn't realize what she had gotten herself into. And her big mistake, actually, was to use _you_ to collect Oscar's child from school. Because of your connection with your _very important_ lover and the information and help he's providing, you're too valuable. Gloria used you for the task because she never developed a good network and you were the only person she could think of for the job. She was really kind of limited. The United States is just starting to recruit people for this kind of work, and they don't yet have it down to a science."

"So, what's going to happen with our little weekly messages?"

"They're suspended until Gloria's replacement turns up. Your method for transmitting messages is the first one that hasn't been cracked by the other side, and it's working very well, Christine, but I really think _you're_ out of the game now."

Christine's first impulse was to reveal that her code had indeed been cracked by Erik, but her attention was fastened on Marga's last statement. "Why am I out of the game?"

"Your man is very important, as we've said, and he demands it. He seems very protective of you." Marga gave Christine a long, unblinking look, then continued. "Your situation is complicated. Why didn't you tell me you're married – and who you're married to?"

Christine flushed and struggled to maintain her composure. "Gloria's told you everything, hasn't she?"

"She was in quite a state. I was the only person she trusted."

"That's no reason to come apart and reveal _everything_!"

"She knows I'm your friend. Although it doesn't seem you consider me a confidante."

"Marga, you left! You left the arts, you got involved with the anarchists, and I was staying out of politics and getting married. Then the war came, and you were in the militia manning the barricades! I had to hear about your exploits from other people. I hear you fought on the Aragon front...is it true?"

Marga started back in her chair as though struck. The shoe was on the other foot now. "You know as well as I do that all I did would get me a death sentence if not for Gonzalo," she hissed quietly. Her eyes darted about the bar, which was empty in spite of its being a Saturday.

There was the sound of laughter from the behind the door at the back of the bar, and the women froze and stared at its battered oak surface. A couple burst through the door, the woman moving coyly away from the man. He moved forward, gripping her by her upper arm, and she swung round to smile at him, her netted hat askew and her teeth elegant and white. They appeared to be about to kiss, but the door slammed open again and Maite entered.

"The señora will want coffee, I believe. And what will the señor have? A bit of cognac, perhaps?" She gave each of them a significant look.

The couple moved bashfully apart and looked around the bar for the first time. The woman could not hide her chagrin upon seeing that the bar was not empty, and the man became suddenly glum. He worked at his hat brim with his manicured hands so that it went round and round, but he did not look at Christine or Margarita directly. The woman went to the far end of the bar and sat down while Maite brought her coffee that was actually chicory. The man sat at a table in the middle of the bar.

Marga smiled archly at Christine. "Time to go."

As they left the narrow streets of the Raval district and entered the broader avenues of the Eixample, Christine pulled her coat collar up against the cold March breeze. The sunlight shone on the leaves of young sycamores.

"What was that all about, Marga? That couple in the bar?" She whispered.

"Hmmm? What, you didn't guess? Okay, why do you think the ' _Fragata'_ has so few clients?"

"Because Maite and Rubén are bad at keeping a cafe, I thought – plus rationing problems," Christine reasoned.

"Ha! They're very good at business. Very good. They're discreet, they don't ask questions, and they provide good cover...they rent out their upstairs flat to couples in need of a place to tryst. They're running a _meuble_ , not a cafe, really."

Christine was silent. It was true that now that divorce was illegal, _and adultery unthinkable for women._ Married people having affairs could not go to hotels, where they would need to provide proof of their marital status. Many widows of Republican soldiers subsisted on the income renting out their flats to such couples provided them. The widows of National soldiers, _legitimate_ widows, were often licensed by the Regime to run tobacco shops. The disgraced widows of soldiers of the Republic received no such consideration from the government and resorted to whatever means they could to eke out a living. Of course, Christine did not need a _meuble_ – she and Erik had the cover of an entire mountain. She shook her head sadly.

They moved through a crowded avenue and approached a kiosk. Groups of people were buying newspapers and talking – some animatedly, some crying.

"What is it?" Christine started forward, scrutinizing the headline on one of the newspapers as a man leafed through it. He obligingly held it up so that she could see the headline: _Alfonso XIII Dead._

The two women headed away, arm in arm. Marga hid a bitter smile. "The damned monarchists who helped Franco to power have their comeuppance. Now they'll never get their king back!"


	16. Chapter 16

**Many thanks to all who are reading this story, and especially to those angels who take the time and trouble to review. :)**

* * *

 _Franco's propaganda machine would divulge, in hindsight, that...Franco clearly surpassed Hitler in intelligence and diplomatic ability, and that was what saved Spain from becoming involved in the Second World War. In reality, what saved the country from getting into the war was its anguished situation, prostrate and starving, and [Exterior Minister] Serrano Suñer's obstinacy, combined with the fact that Hitler invaded the USSR and postponed_ sine die _his plans involving Gibraltar and the Mediterranean. Spain...would follow a unabashedly pro-German policy until 1943, when the unfavorable turn the war took for the Axis would advise a more neutral position._

 _– Juan Eslava Galán,_ Los años del miedo

Stewed garbanzos with spinach made up the sole dish on Lenten Fridays in Mamá Valerio's household. She had never been a strict Catholic, but she knew how important it was to keep up appearances these days; everyone had potential enemies.

Fortunately, the neighbors in the flat upstairs were friends of Mamá's. They were grateful beneficiaries of Erik's largesse. Through his connections, the best food on the black market was delivered discreetly and regularly to the Valerio household. There was too much for two women and their maid, so the excess went to the upstairs family whose three young children, who had been starving immediately after the war, were now putting on weight. The father of the family had been sympathetic to the Republic and could not find work anywhere.

"They sound like wild horses up there!" Mamá commented, smiling in satisfaction. The children upstairs had been very quiet, much too quiet, when they had been hungry. Now the ceiling thumped noisily with their antics. Mamá never complained. She had escaped death, and so had those children, and she felt a certain kinship with them.

Christine observed as Paqui shared a complicit smile with Mamá and set the table. The maid had taken Christine's place as Mamá Valerio's closest friend and confidante. Her work and her relationship with Erik had taken Christine out of the house for long periods of time. At first, Mamá had worried over what it was that the young woman was doing, where she went, and with whom. She was convinced that Christine was seeing a man, which was true enough. All her questions had turned into quarrels between the two women, and the quarrels had finally diminished into an uneasy silence. They were civil to each other, but there was no longer any warmth in their relationship.

"Ah, Christine! I nearly forgot. That nice young man came by to see you the other day. What was his name? Sr. Oscuro, I believe, or Captain Oscuro. He's got a fine career, from what he tells me. This time I chatted with him a little, because he insisted on waiting for you..." Mamá nattered on, seemingly oblivious to the quarrel they had had over Oscuro earlier that month.

"I've asked you to please discourage him, Mamá," Christine interrupted. "I've dealt with him on several occasions, and he's not a nice man."

"But he seemed perfectly nice to me! His manners were of the best class of people! And if you've given your husband up for dead, as it seems you have, you might as well become acquainted with respectable men who actually come to visit your _house_." Mamá's tone had become peevish.

Christine glanced towards the kitchen where Paqui was working, just out of earshot. "You haven't told anyone about Raoul? Not even Paqui, I hope?"

Mamá looked offended. "Of course not! I may be old, but I'm not feeble-minded, and I do have your best interests at heart."

"Please trust my judgment. Send Captain Oscuro off whenever he turns up. Please!"

The doorbell startled Christine, and her heart hammered at the thought that it might be Oscuro himself; she wondered whether he had overheard any of the conversation. But when she opened the door, it was to a pimpled youth of about sixteen who tipped his cap to her and handed her an envelope. "For you, Señora," he said, and he was gone before she could tip him.

The elaborate "C." on the front of the envelope in red ink left no doubt as to who had sent it. Erik was the only person she knew who enjoyed using red ink in his inkwell and fountain pens. For everyone else, the color signified either debt or communism.

The envelope was sealed with red wax, with the image of a fleur-de-lis pressed into it. It was a banal symbol designed not to call attention to either the sender or recipient. Christine blushed: it was also Erik's code demanding that she visit him at Montjuic.

She broke the seal and drew out a printed document with two Church seals at the bottom. "It's a dispensation from the Lenten fast. We can eat cheese, eggs, and milk for the entire season!" It was a boon for Mamá; she was fully recovered from her illness but was still not up to weight yet. Christine felt a cool wave of relief and gratitude towards Erik. She looked at the paper – she was not familiar with the name of the priest, but the dispensation had been expensive: 10 pesetas, based on the sliding scale. Erik was considered rich, she observed wryly. The Bull of the Crusade was many centuries old, but the Church still used it to raise money. She wondered whether Erik himself had bought this _bula de cuaresma_ from the parish or whether the delivery boy had been entrusted with the task. Christine was bothered by another thought: the ability to buy the _bula_ was becoming a status symbol. Would this gift draw too much attention to their household? _Well, I'm a diva now. I suppose I do receive too much attention these days to begin with._

Mamá stood like a black crow, her arms akimbo and her stare fixed on Christine. "I suppose this means you will be out again tonight."

"I have to go, Mamá. I...I have work to do."

She left the house with a bitter taste in her mouth.

* * *

The Victoria was dedicating most of its time to Falla's ballet, " _El Amor Brujo_ ," but its Lenten Fridays and Saturdays were dedicated to a passion play. The play had been set to grim and discordant music by a priest who thought himself a brilliant composer, and good Catholics were encouraged to attend. The managers were delighted; they were accustomed to condemnation from the pulpit. Letting the Church have its passion play was good business for the theater.

Erik looked at the score, his mouth set into a firm line of opprobrium. "A score fit for a season of penance," he sentenced. "Only the casting is worse."

Christine smiled. She had been cast as Mary Magdalene, and Carlotta had been cast as the Virgin Mary. The Italian diva had compounded the casting error by dying her hair an unnatural shade of maroon.

"Oh, but I _should_ be cast as a sinner," said Christine archly as she peeled another potato. She was making an omelet in Erik's kitchen while he leaned against the doorway, alternately watching her and reading the score. They had settled into a routine at Montjuic that was nine parts passion and one part domesticity.

"You should be cast as an angel." Erik's gaze was warm, adoring.

Christine sighed. "A fallen angel, then," she retorted, and pointedly dropped the potatoes in hot oil, where they began to sizzle. "And thank you again for the _bula de cuaresma_. It's ironic that I'm excused from the sin of eating meat while I'm habitually committing a much worse sin."

"No," said Erik, "I've known sin in all its myriad manifestations. What we have, you and I, is _not_ sin. Quite the opposite, my love." His voice gave Christine pleasant goosebumps. "But I would gladly go to Hell for you."

"Don't say that!" Christine turned from her cooking to look at him, wide-eyed with sudden superstition. "Say a quick prayer!"

He laughed richly and approached her; she felt his teeth nip at the side of her neck. "Such a lovely girl, to worry about the state of my wicked, black soul."

* * *

Later that evening, Erik carefully instructed Christine on how to disable the many booby traps he had set in the tunnels leading to his home. Then, he taught her how to set them again. "Just in case," he said.

"I don't think I'll be taking refuge from danger anytime soon," said Christine, as they turned back down the tunnels towards Erik's home. "I understand I'm no longer working for the Americans. Without Gloria, how am I supposed to give information to Gonzalo Fernández? He'll fire me!"

Erik's eyes glowed from the pitch blackness in front of her as he turned to look at her. He, apparently, had such a keen ability to see in the dark that he did not need a lantern. She held her own lantern up toward him to discern his expression.

"Do I not provide for you, my dear? Do I fail to see to your every need? Gonzalo Fernández may take a flying leap!" His eyes disappeared, and she could only see the black of his cloak in front of her once more.

The bright, generator-produced lights of the entryway appeared as Erik opened the door for her. There were no brownouts in Erik's home as there were in the shortage-plagued city.

Christine blinked as her eyes adjusted. "Erik...I need to cooperate with the Regime. If I don't give Gonzalo regular doses of information, then I'll lose his protection."

Erik rounded on her and suddenly seemed even taller than he already was. "Do you think you lack a protector?" he lashed. From her perspective below, she noted the stubborn jut of his strong chin and the ice in his golden eyes.

Christine took a step back and began to stammer a response, but sudden regret flashed in Erik's eyes and he fell to one knee before her, taking a hand. "Forgive me," he murmured and looked up at her pleadingly.

Erik's mercurial changes of demeanor often left Christine feeling off-balance, but she summoned as affectionate a smile as she could. "There's nothing to forgive. Please get up off the floor."

"I will sing for you," he said, and despite herself, Christine felt her heart soar. Erik's voice was, she had decided, addictive. If he wanted to induce euphoria, he could, even in a minor key. If he wanted to instill longing, he could, in any key. She wondered whether he could also use his voice as an instrument of torment, and decided she did not want to know. She lost herself as he seated himself at the piano and launched into " _Porquoi me réveiller_?" from "Werther."

* * *

Oscuro cursed the woman yet again as he hurried towards the Vía Laietana police headquarters.

Yesterday had been Good Friday, and he had spent the day following that Daaé woman. She and the Señora Valerio had gone to Mass wearing their best combs and mantillas and carrying missals. He had stayed at the back of the church, his eyes on the back of Christine's neck, watching the play of light as it filtered through the mantilla to touch her white flesh. His imagination took him on flights of fancy that would have horrified the priest officiating the Mass. He spent the first reading, from Isaiah, thinking of her neck, and how better than bread it would be in his mouth. He spent the second reading, from St. Paul, thinking of her shoulders, and what they had looked like bared to all eyes at the ball. He spent the reading of the Passion according to St. John thinking of her breasts but trying not to, and by the time the Holy Eucharist arrived, he was well into her underwear and had completely abandoned himself to his fantasies.

Then, Oscuro had awakened to the reality of the women's leaving with the rest of the congregation. He gave them time to shuffle out the door with the rest of the congregation before following them outside. He located them, squinting against the sudden brilliance of the sunlight, and put his hat on. He followed them at a distance until they got to Las Ramblas. The crowd increased; it seemed the entire city had turned out for the holiday. The women parted ways, and Christine turned and entered a side street. Oscuro quickened his pace to a jog as she disappeared from view, jostling people as he went. He rounded the corner and looked: no sign of Christine in the narrow street. She seemed to have evaporated.

Now, Oscuro was fuming as he jostled against people on the Via Laietana and entered the police station. The energy generated by his anger sent him up three flights of stairs. He had no patience for the elevator. He thought of the scene at the ball at the Ritz, and became angrier. The low-born slut had spurned him and danced with that masked freak Deschamps the entire night! She had ignored him completely. Fortunately, it had worked in his favor. Deschamps had not noticed him, which was always a good thing. But, still...that blonde's disdain for him was a provocation.

The priest was no help. Don Efrén had sent a brief message to him promising his cooperation but begging for time.

Then there were the rumors of Deschamps' fortune in gold bars. The rumors were too numerous not to have something of truth to them. Oscuro was convinced that, as elusive as Deschamps himself was, Christine was the person who could lead him to the man.

The offices were nearly empty on a holiday Saturday, but Gonzalo Fernández's door was ajar. Marga's dressing room at the Victoria wasn't the only refuge Fernández used to escape his gorgon of a mother. Oscuro exhaled, and some of his anger dissipated.

"I know you're out there, José Luis. I'd know the noisy sound of your footsteps anywhere!" Fernández's baritone issued from within the office.

Oscuro pushed the heavy door open. "You're a talented detective, Gonzalo, but you look like hell. What happened to you?"

Fernández was not his usual dapper self. He had dark rings under his eyes, his clothes were rumpled, and there was two days' growth of beard covering his usually immaculate chin.

"I told my mother that Marga and I are engaged. She screamed until six in the morning," Fernández muttered. He glared at the document on the desk in front of him and slammed a rubber stamp onto it.

" _Hombre_! Congratulations!" said Oscuro automatically.

"Yes. Thank you. Don't tell Marga about our engagement, she doesn't know yet."

Oscuro stared at Fernández, who continued to attack his stack of documents with a rubber stamp. "How...?" he began.

"I'm getting my mother used to the idea over time. That way she'll calm down gradually and, I hope, will not attack my Marga when it's time for her to come to our engagement dinner. What are you doing here on a Saturday?"

"I've come to see you, José Luis. It's about Christine Daaé."

Fernández lowered his face to the desk and clasped his hands over the back of his head, sighing. "What now?"

"I have reason to believe that she's the blonde who picked up the Fischer boy and killed that policeman." Oscuro said quickly. He was not encouraged by the state Fernández was in.

Fernández's chin still touched the desk, but he raised incredulous bloodshot eyes to Oscuro's face. "You think _Christine_ killed that fellow?"

"Well, not directly. The man was strangled with a technique that is Erik Deschamps' trademark. He must have been there with Christine."

"That's not much evidence."

"Since when do we need _evidence_? We can arrest whomever we want!" Oscuro snapped.

"Just a minute. You wish to arrest _Deschamps_? Are you mad?"

"Of course not! Who could ever undertake to arrest Deschamps? It's Christine we could arrest, to use leverage on the man. By the Host, you're obtuse today, Gonzalo!"

Fernández sighed and pulled at his collar to loosen his tie. He never went out in public without a tie, no matter what his state. "Christine is working for us. There's no reason to arrest her. There's no reason to bother her in any way whatsoever!"

Oscuro gritted his teeth. "You're a fool, Gonzalo. The Germans are furious with us about the Fischer case. We could deliver Christine to them and -"

"Absolutely not! Now you're thinking of delivering little Christine to the _Nazis_? Do you know what you're saying? Do you have any idea what they _do_ to people?" Fernández was red in the face and his hands were clasped into fists.

"So? We do three-fifths of the same to criminals ourselves!"

"Not if _I_ can help it. I don't care for our comrades who resort to such methods. The New Spain does not require them. And I wonder where this obsession of yours over Christine is coming from, José Luis? I don't much care for it."

Now it was Oscuro's turn to redden. "Why are _you_ protecting this woman? Don't you want to bring Deschamps into line? You yourself said he's been failing the cause."

"He's been failing the _Nazis,_ not us."

"We share the same cause! Franco has made our alliance with the Nazis a sacred one!"

" _Franquito_ has made our alliance seem a sacred one for the benefit of the Germans. But don't forget that the British have a naval blockade in force, and that the Royal Navy is enforcing certification of all cargo coming into Spain. Do you know what that means, José Luis? We're walking a tightrope! If we don't cater _just enough_ to the Germans to put them off, they'll march through Spain. If we cater _too much_ to the Germans, the British will cut off our supplies, starve us completely, and leave us in the dark. Children are starving to begin with, and there's a drought on – crops are _not_ going to be good this year. We have to satisfy both the Axis and the Allies – we're playing both sides! Where do you think the British are getting iron ore and potash? Why, _Spain_ supplies them! If Deschamps happens to be playing both sides, I think it advisable that we look the other way. We don't _want_ to know what he's doing, in fact. And let Christine alone, do you understand?"

Oscuro controlled himself with difficulty. Up until now, Fernández had always behaved as a friend to him, though he was his superior. Resentment welled up within him like bile, but he finally nodded.

He was on his own.


	17. Chapter 17

**Many thanks to those wonderful folks who have taken the time and effort to give me feedback. You rock! A special note of appreciation to those who are reviewing anonymously - I can't IM you my thanks, but please know I am grateful to you.**

* * *

 _...Hitler is a mystic and a soldier, which is to be the ideal military man twice over. In war, his genius is clairvoyant and his science is based upon the study of all the military history in the World; in times of peace, Hitler is an artist, with mysticism for his art as well. He was not the type of architect that comes from the special schools, but nonetheless he is the supreme architect of a people and indeed of a new concept of Europe and the World..._

 _–_ La Vanguardia _, April 20, 1941 (Hitler's birthday)_

During the spring of 1941, Hitler appeared invincible. _La Vanguardia_ was filled with news of German and Italian victories in Yugoslavia and Greece, and of the magnificent _Afrikakorps_. By the end of April, Greece finally fell. Nearly all of mainland Europe was under Nazi control, all the way east to the Soviet Union. The sufferings of the English population caused by the Luftwaffe bombings were reported in gleeful detail. The Iraqi government was overthrown in favor of one friendly to the Axis powers, though the British recovered Iraq at the end of May.

Christine was inundated with invitations to sing at "acts of German-Italian-Spanish fraternity," various social events at the Ritz, and even a party for the parents and hosts of visiting Hitler Youth. Carlotta's jealousy soon got the better of her. The Italian diva had long held reign over all salons and social events hosted by Barcelona's _haute bourgeoisie_ , and she watched over her territory with an eagle eye. Now, she became so haughty in demanding invitations to the same events to which Christine was invited that she inflicted injury on her own reputation. If the weekly concerts at the Victoria were not enough proof that the Italian diva was trying too hard to compete with Christine, these social events unsheathed tongues that were sharp as daggers. Whenever the older woman bustled to the front of an audience in an attempt to upstage the younger artist, titters would erupt and would be hushed only with one of Carlotta's Medusa glares. She was blissfully unaware of the fact that people now looked forward to the comedy the rivalry offered them. Christine's grace under Carlotta's frantic pressure yielded her one quiet victory after another.

The cast of the Victoria was grateful finally to be rid of the Passion Play and returned to work with renewed energy after Easter. Margarita had become a star in her own right after " _Amor Brujo,"_ and the production was extended in spite of conflicts between the dancer and Carlotta. The role of the Gypsy Candela required Marga to sing, and she did a fair job as a mezzo _cantaora_ singing in the flamenco style. Christine was impressed by this talent of Margarita's, but Carlotta, as usual, hated the idea of being eclipsed by any other performer.

"I have inhabited all sorts of roles – I have been a princess, a queen, a saint, every kind of character known to drama – and I can certainly be a dirty Gypsy!" Carlotta raved at Jordi Soler, the more timid of the Victoria's two managers. Soler seemed to contract farther into himself with each of the diva's words.

"'A dirty Gypsy'?" snarled an irate voice. It was Antonio Romero, the Gypsy dancer who was playing José in the production. "Señora, I would not share the stage with a shrew like you if you held the key to the Kingdom of Heaven!" His coquettish Andalusian lisp belied the rage behind his words.

"Don't worry, Antonio. She only holds the key to a well-filled pantry. The fat cow couldn't dance to save her life, but she eats enough so that three children can go hungry in her name!" Margarita's voice was like a lash.

The theater was shocked into silence for a minute at that. The newspapers did not carry news of it, but everyone knew of the starvation in the Extremadura and Andalusia regions.

Then, Carlotta exploded. "You dirty anarchist bitch!" She turned to Soler. "I have _friends_ , you know, in the Italian delegation. Nobody says these things to _La Carlotta_ and gets away with it! They will go to the government! They will..."

"Shut up, Carlotta, we've heard this all before! Your Italians are just as tired of you by now as our Nazis are," interrupted Marga. "Besides, you can't dance."

For a moment, Carlotta seemed to deflate, though her ample bosom continued to heave. Even those friendly to her joked about her inability to dance well. Although she had a pleasing hourglass figure, she was plump and built on a large scale and tended to move clumsily.

" _Signora_ , _La Margarita_ was unfortunate in her manner of expressing it, but ' _El Amor Brujo_ ' is a ballet." It was Lluis Junyent, the other manager, and he strode down the aisle to stand in front of the stage next to his partner Soler, who smiled at him gratefully.

The interaction was not lost on Carlotta, and her lips curled up into a malicious smile. "I may not get the role of Candela, gentlemen. Very well! I expect a considerable olive branch from you in the near future, though. I expect something very, very good from you. Because if I don't get something good, or if that something good goes to _her_ -" here, she nodded towards Christine, who had been standing silently beside Marga, "I will make sure your little _relationship_ is documented and presented to the proper authorities. Yes, we all know our little managers are a pair of _mariquitas_ who could easily end up in a concentration camp for sinning against the laws of our National-Catholic God." Her tone was one of quiet, gleeful fury.

Soler blanched, but Junyent went scarlet with rage. "We shall see, Signora...we shall see," he managed.

There were murmurs among the cast, and Christine looked at Marga with her heart in her throat. The Nationals had taken homosexuals on "walks" from which they never returned during the war, and now they were often beaten to death or imprisoned.

Marga looked back at Christine with icy calm. "Don't worry," she mouthed, and Christine had faith in her, and in Gonzalo Fernández.

The truth was that Margarita had taken on an almost supernatural quality lately. She had come into her own. She had always been possessed by restless energy and passion. During the war, she had used it to defend her ideals. Now, as Carmela, she danced like one possessed. The theater filled up every night to witness her dancing her icy terror, her fiery passion, and her freedom. Christine would watch her rehearse, and at times the scenes would frighten her. There was something about Candela's nightly dance with her dead, jealous lover which reminded her of herself.

Erik had become more demanding over time. He seemed to sense Christine's uncertainty every time Raoul came to her mind, and she could feel his jealousy in his lovemaking. More often than not, he would demand her company in the evenings, and he was always loath to let her go. He courted her: their music lessons often culminated in sublime duets in which his voice would hypnotize her into sweet oblivion and mindless passion. _But, oh, the guilt!_

Her mood was dark as she made her way towards her dressing room. Her progress was interrupted by one of the the managers' secretaries, who was running after her with a clatter of heels on the wooden floor.

"Señorita Daaé...a message for you! We've received a telephone call about your mother!" The woman stopped in front of Christine, out of breath.

"About...Mamá?" Christine felt stupid and dull.

"She's very ill. You need to hurry home."

* * *

The family doctor's black Peugeot was parked outside the building when Christine sprinted out of the taxi the secretary had called for her. She stumbled up the stairs, and when she reached her floor, the neighbors who were assembled outside parted so that she could enter her flat. She slammed the door against them, their curiosity, and their murmurs. Paqui could be heard crying hoarsely and sobbing. Christine followed the sound to Mamá's bedroom and dropped to her knees beside the bed. Mamá's face was ashen and her lips were blue. _Grey and blue...the colors of death._ Fleetingly, Christine thought what a mercy it was that her eyes were closed. She did not want to see them, not now. Her lips felt numb, and her eyes were dry.

"I closed her eyes," came Dr. Vidal's tired voice. "It was a heart attack. The señora had a very difficult year, and in the end it was all too much for her..." He added the words of sympathy that were de rigueur. There was nothing heartfelt in the tired doctor's demeanor. Why should there be, when he saw so many dead children these days? What was the death of an elderly woman to him in times of such need?

Dr. Vidal departed, and Paqui continued to sob quietly in a corner of the room. Christine continued to kneel beside the bed, her arm stretched out across the mattress just shy of Mamá's clasped hands, her cheek flat against the edge of the mattress. She thought of the life that the Professor had given to her father when he practically had adopted both father and daughter, and their music. She had been about seven at the time, but she remembered the change in her father as if it had been yesterday. Mamá Valerio had been kind to the motherless daughter of an addle-pated father, and had always been the closest thing she had had to a mother. And how had Christine thanked her?

"I'm leaving now," said Paqui. Her voice was dry now, but she regarded Christine with red, puffy eyes.

"Leaving? Please don't leave. Stay on. I know I'm not home much, Paqui, but you've become one of the family, and this house needs you."

"No. Your Mamá was a good woman, a real lady, but I don't want to work for a woman of loose morals like you." Paqui's voice was flat, but the expression in her eyes was suddenly clear to Christine: it was hatred.

"Paqui, where will you go? At least let me help you -"

"And I don't want your help. Don't worry, I won't tell anybody all I know about you, or how I know it. Just remember that I've washed your clothes. I won't do that anymore. You've as good as killed the poor Señora. Well, she is in Heaven now, but I hope that when God receives _you,_ he receives you confessed." She turned and walked out of the room.

Christine could hear Paqui moving about in her bedroom, the sound of drawers opening and closing, and the wardrobe doors being closed. A few quick steps across the sitting room, a slam of the door, and she was gone. Christine was alone. She began to tremble in spite of the warmth of the May afternoon. From the golden quality of the sunlight filtering through the scrim curtains, she judged that it would be evening soon. Arrangements would have to be made. She thought of Father Efrén.

A cool hand caressed her cheek, and she started awake. "Christine." The simple sound of her name pronounced in Erik's gentlest tones brought the tears. His strong arms pulled her carefully up, and she buried her face in his starched shirt and muffled her howls of grief until they became sobs. His hands were cool, soothing. He murmured words of comfort, and she felt them resonate within his ribcage, heard his heartbeat. The neighbor's children thumped to the left and then to the right above them. The sounds of life pacified her.

"Your guardian took coffee before she died," Erik observed, finally.

Christine looked up at him. There was something strange in his tone. "I wasn't here. I wouldn't know."

"There's an empty coffee cup on the dining room table with dregs in it. She added some liqueur from a bottle that is also on the table, freshly opened." What was he saying?

"Mamá likes...liked to have a bit of aguardiente in her coffee now and then. It helped her joints, she said." She blew her nose into the handkerchief Erik handed her.

"Where did the bottle of aguardiente come from?"

"I don't know. It lost whatever card came with it. It was a gift from some admirer that came to my dressing room. You know I get bouquets and chocolates..."

His arms tightened around her, and she could feel the tension in his every fiber. There was a long silence before she dared to look up at Erik, before she dared to hear what he had to say.

"Your guardian died of a poison that was intended for you."

* * *

In the days that followed, Erik arranged everything – the mortuary, newspaper obituary, funeral, flowers, cemetery space, stonecutter's services, and a slew of other details to be attended. Throughout this time, he was never far from Christine.

Margarita and Gonzalo Fernández arrived at her flat a few hours after Mamá's death. They flanked Christine like guards as she received friends and neighbors who offered their condolences, and Fernández made certain that nobody stayed too long or pried too much.

"I accompany you in your sentiment, Señora." Christine stiffened at hearing Oscuro's voice, and she grudgingly accepted the friendly kiss to each cheek he proffered. He wore an expensive brand of cologne that many of the well-heeled patrons at the Victoria's parties wore. "Your guardian's death was quite sudden, wasn't it?" he added. "I saw her only several days ago, and she looked quite well. Such a shame." The black eyes scrutinized her.

"Her heart gave out, José Luis. I've seen stronger people cut down suddenly by that," said Fernández, and Christine turned to look at him. There was something about his voice and manner of address that was cooler than usual.

"Would you like some aguardiente, Captain Oscuro? I received a bottle of it as a gift from a generous admirer. It's very good." Christine had not told anyone about Erik's conviction that the cordial had been poisoned. He had taken the bottle with him when he departed, so she did not have a drop of aguardiente in the house. She watched Oscuro's face carefully for some reaction to her hospitable offer.

"Well, yes, please," he replied with a glint of surprise in his eyes. He smiled and lifted his chin even more than usual.

 _So, Oscuro wasn't the one who sent the poisoned gift._ Christine sped to the kitchen and ransacked a linen cabinet until she found a bottle in Mamá's usual hiding-place. She filled a shot glass with some of the amber liquid, placed it on a tray with a linen napkin, and went to the sitting-room to serve it to Oscuro.

He accepted it in a courtly way, with a slight bow, and Christine realized that what he really enjoyed was not the prospect of the drink but the gesture of servility that her serving it to him represented. It was something very slight, but it was there, and she perceived it.

"Señora Daaé, this is not aguardiente at all, but an excellent Patxaran which I shall enjoy greatly. I'm surprised your maid is not here to help you at such a difficult time," Oscuro observed, glancing around the room.

"She was too grief-stricken to be of any help," Christine responded. The brief idea that she would scream if she even thought of Paqui surfaced, but Christine tamped it down. She would guard it deep down in the same place where she kept everything that could harm her if exposed to thought.

Fernández took control of the conversation after that exchange, and within a short time managed to close the door behind Oscuro.


	18. Chapter 18

**Many, many thanks, as ever, to those kind souls who have taken the time and trouble to read and review. :)**

* * *

 _THE POWERS OF THE AXIS DEFEND EUROPE AGAINST COMMUNISM: Sunday morning, the forces of the Reich, along with those of Finland and Romania, crossed the Russian border_

 _– Headline,_ La Vanguardia _, June 24, 1941_

The burial took place in the Poble Nou cemetery. Unlike Christine's father, Mamá was to be interred in the cemetery itself, which was consecrated exclusively for Roman Catholics. Her friend Gustave Daaé would forever be separated from those he loved by a wall. Christine sighed. She herself had been baptized a Roman Catholic at the insistence of her mother, who had converted to the religion. Whenever she died, she would not be interred near her father, either.

She lifted her eyes toward the section of the cemetery where her mother was buried, remembering years of chrysanthemums left there each All Saints' Day. Her father would also bring his violin for the occasion and play for the dead, and the sound of his peaceful melodies would extend like a blessing over Catholic and heretic alike.

The stifling heat of the June day pressed on Christine. The staccato buzz of cicadas punctuated priest's voice as he pronounced the final commendation, and she felt Margarita's arm around her shoulder as the niche was sealed.

At the back of the group, Oscuro swatted at a fly irritably and mopped his brow with a handkerchief. He longed to light a cigarette and turned to scan a row of cypresses for an appropriate refuge. His eyes settled on a lone figure there, clothed in deep mourning: Paqui, Mamá Valerio's maid.

Oscuro approached Paqui at a leisurely pace with an expression of studied disinterest on his face. He nodded his acknowledgment of her as he lit up his cigarette. "Señorita Paqui. You'll remember me, I'm sure." His smile was intended to relax her.

Paqui looked at him with blank distrust. "You're that policeman who likes Christine." She shrugged and directed an involuntary glance at Christine, and her mask came off for an instant. Oscuro suppressed his glee: The maid loathed Christine.

"I _like_ señora Daaé?" said Oscuro with an air of surprise, then smiled at Paqui warmly. "I suppose I intended to give her guardian that impression, but I assure you, it was only because I'm investigating her. I hope I'm not wasting my time...she seems so boringly sweet and innocent, especially for an opera singer."

"She's a viper!" Paqui spat hoarsely before she could regain control of herself. Then she looked at Oscuro appraisingly for a moment before she spoke again. "Forgive me for being so indiscreet, Captain, but I feel it my sad duty as a good Catholic to tell you that the woman is a Red and a sinner. I _know_."

So, Paqui wished to intrigue him. She waited, her blue eyes wide, a sheen of perspiration coating her flushed olive skin. Oscuro decided to grant her the reaction she wished for. "This is shocking indeed, Señorita, and if this information were coming from anyone less respectable than you, I would not believe it!"

Paqui nodded vigorously, her dark veil flapping over her dark curls. Oscuro was reminded fleetingly of a poodle. "She pretends to be such a good little Roman Catholic, but I know she didn't go to Mass before our glorious victory against the Reds. I know she made the dear señora Valerio sad, with all her mysterious comings and goings. She fornicates for food, you know – she gets more than her rations, the greedy pig!"

"What? But this is scandalous! You mean to say that she, a widow, is sleeping with men without benefit of matrimony?" Oscuro raised his eyebrows in as genuine an expression of outrage as he could muster.

Paqui lowered her voice, and Oscuro sensed in it the bunching haunches of a feline ready to spring for the kill. "It's worse than that, much worse. She's committing adultery. Her husband is still alive."

This time Oscuro did not have to feign astonishment. He stood before Paqui mutely, waves of shock coursing through his body.

Paqui was smiling openly now, completely unable to hide her pleasure at the effect of her revelations on Oscuro. "And that isn't the worst of it. Her husband is a Red fighting with subversives against Hitler in France."

"His name?" Oscuro croaked.

This time, Paqui shook her head unhappily. "I don't know his name..."

He seized her hand. "Señorita, you would be doing the national crusade an excellent service if you would find out who her husband is. Do whatever you have to, but find out as much as you can about him!"

Paqui smiled.

There was a ripple of excited voices, and Oscuro glanced toward the mourners. Gonzalo Fernández had just joined the group, and Margarita was looking up at him gravely, while other mourners seemed nervous, excited, frightened.

Oscuro strode over to Fernández and gripped his arm. "What's going on?"

"You haven't heard the news? Hitler's just invaded the Soviet Union – part of his tireless campaign to rid Christian Europe of the scourge of communism."

* * *

Stalin was apparently as surprised as anyone else that his German ally had turned on him so treacherously, and he immediately forged an alliance with the British.

"The enemy of his enemy is now his friend," observed Erik, his long legs stretched out as he read the newspaper in his sitting room at Montjuic. His eyes followed Christine, as they always did, while she crossed the room to retrieve a book.

"I never thought I'd see the day that Churchill would ally England with Stalin," said Christine, crossing her legs and adjusting her skirt as she seated herself to face Erik.

Erik appeared momentarily distracted by her bare legs but answered, "I believe Churchill's exact words regarding the matter were, 'If Hitler invaded hell, I would make at least a favorable reference to the Devil in the House of Commons.'"

Christine smiled as she picked up her copy of _Les Miserables_. The book was on the Church's list of prohibited books, the _Index librorum prohibitorum,_ and she was reading Erik's unabridged copy of it with the glee of a sinner at a bacchanalia. Erik encouraged this rebellious streak in her to the point of indulgence.

Now that Mamá was gone, Erik demanded Christine's presence in his home more often. She resisted, worried for her reputation, but more often than not, his insistence won out. She worried that she was yielding herself completely to his passion for her. His demands on her were not merely sexual. There was the bond that existed between them in their music, in his compositions, the ineffable quality of their duets. They would lie in bed after their lovemaking and speak of everything – of the war, of politics, of books – and he demanded an intellectual level to her side of each discussion that left her exhausted, but happy.

He would often speak of a shared future together, and Christine would answer him with nods or silence. Once, he lost his temper.

"Why do you fail to see that your fate lies with me? If you think you can escape me, you're quite mistaken!" His eyes smoldered, and that combined with the half-light gave his disfigurement an even more diabolical quality than it already possessed. The muscles on his exposed chest and arms tensed under his scars, ready for combat, and he rose to his full height and reached for his cloak.

"Erik, please come back to bed," Christine pleaded. He was still shirtless, but had his trousers on. He rounded on her, and she took an involuntary step back and landed on the bed as her knees hit its edge. She propped herself on her elbows as he glowered down at her, looming over her menacingly.

He held something up, and she recognized it as the gold glinted in the gloom: her old wedding ring. " _This_ seems to be the problem," he hissed, and as he turned the ring with his fingers, a blue flame began to lick at it. The fire illuminated Erik's ghastly features with an azure light from below, and he flicked it across the room. There was a popping and sizzling noise, and Christine could smell acrid smoke. As she moved to leave the bed, Erik lunged forward and pinned her wrists with implausibly cold hands. "Forget him," he rasped, his eyes feral. "Forget him, or he will die."

"Erik..." Christine whispered, but he stalked out of the room.

Piano music tormented her for the rest of that night – at first angry, but gradually sadder until by morning it had reached despair. When dawn arrived, Christine looked for the old wedding ring until she found a scorched place on the rug with a molten lump of gold in its center.

Now she sat with her novel, and she knew that Erik wanted her close to him, but she kept her distance across the room. No matter how intimate they were, she could feel herself placing impediments between her lover and herself. _Her lover!_ Her cheeks could still burn with shame over her own behavior. _Raoul...think of Raoul..._

"Franco will be sending a division to fight alongside the Germans at the Russian front." Erik's voice cut through her thoughts and pulled her attention back to himself.

"But that's tantamount to declaring war on the Soviets!" moaned Christine.

"Good girl! You understand more than some of Franco's generals, who wanted to send a division of the _regular_ army to the front. You needn't worry about that; the cooler head of Serrano Suñer, Franco's brother-in-law and most trusted minister, prevailed. There will be no such clear provocation. This division is to be _all volunteer_ , you see – a people's crusade, to use a hackneyed word, against the evil communist menace to the east. They'll be recruiting hotheads from the Falange."

"But...it still looks..."

"It looks like what it is – Franco's meretricious obedience to Hitler's will, in the guise of a spontaneous popular movement to combat communism. The British understand this, as you well know, but they are tightening their blockade of the Spanish coast in retaliation."

Christine swallowed, taking in the enormity of the situation. The day Hitler had invaded the Soviet Union, some Madrid fascists had become so overwhelmed with excitement that they had gone to the British embassy and demonstrated noisily in front of it. Spain was once more caught in the vise between the Nazis and the Allies. What would happen if Hitler invaded Spain? What would happen if the Allies invaded Spain?

"It's to be called the Blue Division. You understand why," said Erik dryly.

Christine understood immediately. The Falangists' shirts were dark blue.

* * *

Her house had just been cleaned. Christine stood in the doorway in surprise, key in hand, before she entered.

"There you are," said Paqui sourly, emerging from the kitchen with a duster. "I came back to put this place in order. Not for _your_ sake, mind you, but because the real señora would have wanted me here."

Christine had never been a stickler for order. She was disorganized and regarded dust as something benign, inevitable, and not worth bothering about. As she stood in the doorway, staring, she decided that dirt was _much_ better company than Paqui, but that she did not have the energy to throw her out of her house.

"By the way, you're a week late with my wages," Paqui added, and returned to the kitchen.

Sunlight filtered through the curtains Mamá had made so many years ago, and Christine watched the ephemeral dance of dust motes in the light. The dining-room table was bare, but the image of the bottle of _aguardiente_ burned at the back of her retina. She ran a finger down the nicks and scratches in the whorls of the table's dark walnut surface, and she thought. Erik had assured her that he knew who had poisoned the liquor, that the situation had been _taken care of,_ but he had revealed nothing more. She was not to accept gifts from admirers, and was to depend upon him entirely. She shook her head slowly, her gaze lost on the table's surface.

"I hope that means you're penitent," Paqui remarked before retreating to the kitchen again.

"Are you working in there or simply standing near the doorway peeking at me?" moaned Christine.

The doorbell buzzed, and before either woman could open it, Marga burst in.

"There you are!" she said, unwittingly echoing Paqui's greeting. "I've been looking for you, girl! I need your help...maybe you could talk to Gonzalo. Or _somebody_ could talk to Gonzalo! He wants us to get married, but I just _can't_ marry him! Not, at least, until that beast of a mother of his dies and goes to Purgatory. I can't bear the thought of living with her, you know...what's wrong with _her_?"

Paqui had appeared once more and was staring at both women openly. She appeared to take no notice of Marga's outrage, and stood in the kitchen doorway for several more seconds before bothering to retreat.

"She'll be back. She's listening to us and watching us, and I suppose she'll continue doing that. She hates me."

"Why do you put up with it? I'd have her out on her ear!" Marga crossed her arms and stared at the empty doorway.

"Mamá was fond of her. And where will she go if I send her off?"

" _She's_ the one who should be worrying about that! Never mind, be a doormat if you wish, but I won't put up with her. We can talk somewhere else."

* * *

As she took her hat and gloves off, Christine surveyed her dressing room and frowned. Although she had not been back to the Victoria since Mamá's death, she could tell that somebody had searched the room. Objects had been moved very slightly, but she could still discern that they had been touched.

"You need not worry, Christine. I've removed anything that might harm you from this room," said Erik gently as he came into view.

" _Was_ there something there that might have harmed me?"

"Nothing of any significance."

Christine rubbed her eyes tiredly. "Who searched this room, Erik? And who tried to poison me?"

There was a slapping at the door, and Margarita's voice beckoned hoarsely. "Christine! They've called a general meeting, for _now_! Right _now_!" Her footsteps could be heard as she left at an urgent pace.

"That's unusual," remarked Christine, and she turned towards Erik for strength even as she grasped the doorknob on her way out.

"Unusual but necessary. You shall see," said Erik with a tight smile and slight bow of the head as he dismissed her.

* * *

The front-row seats were filled with artists; the technicians slouched in the seats farther to the rear or leaned against the pillars to the sides. Christine sighed and remained standing. During the Republic, the technicians, musicians and artists had mixed as equals, and there had been no empty seats between the them. A voice startled her from her nostalgia.

"You will all please forgive the impromptu nature of this meeting." Junyent, the more garrulous of the two managers, strode to the front of the stage. He pressed his hands together nervously as he scanned the seats. "We have many things to cover this morning, and the sudden death of Señora Carlotta's husband has complicated matters."

The immediate shocked silence soon became the murmuring buzz of a beehive.

"I didn't even know she had a husband," Christine murmured to herself.

"She did, but he was more of a business manager for her than anything," came the voice of a lighting tech nearby. "They were really estranged. You know how difficult the woman is."

Junyent was gesturing downwards with his palms, pleading for the noise to recede. "I know we all accompany Carlotta in her grief," he recommenced, "and you must know that the police are investigating this most suspicious death..."

"Is this why our dressing rooms are being searched?" shouted a voice in shrill indignation, and a wave of chatter erupted.

"There has been some suspicion of the existence of contraband in this theater – of prohibited items such as tinned meats, tobacco, sweets, liqueurs. _That_ is why your dressing rooms have been searched," responded Junyent in a thin, tremulous voice.

"And there are _spies_ in this theater who will be arrested, including the murderess who killed my dear husband!" interrupted Carlotta. She was stalking down the center aisle and had projected her voice to maximum effect, so that it seemed to fill the theater. "Captain Fernández? Where are you? Tell everyone what the Gestapo found when they searched Christina Daaé's dressing room. _Murderess_!" This last word was directed as a hiss at Christine.

Tiredness was Christine's ally in helping her to maintain her composure. She could not rouse even a trace of alarm at Carlotta's accusation, but merely stared at her, waiting to see what would happen. The wave of voices that had ebbed for Junyent now flowed and crashed around her freely, like waves.

The voices receded, and she saw Fernández striding across the stage at an quick pace. Beyond him, a pair of yellow eyes shone out at her from the darkness, then disappeared.

"First of all, I would like to thank Carlotta for inviting the Gestapo to search this building. As you know, we cannot be too zealous in our pursuit of our enemies, who are legion..." As Fernández began, there was a low hiss from some of the technicians, then some of the dancers. It was all directed at Carlotta, but the diva stood firmly in place, her eyes drilled into Fernández.  
"We are happy to report that nothing the least bit incriminating has been found in anyone's dressing room..." Fernández continued.

"No!" screamed Carlotta and covered the rest of the distance towards the stage. The gulf of the orchestra pit separated her from Fernández, but she seemed ready to vault across. "You can't let her get away this time! I know she is guilty! She _killed_ my husband!" She turned to point an accusing finger at Christine, her arm outstretched and her eyes wild.

Fernández sighed. "Señora, you are not well. You have had a shock..."

"She _knew_ my husband had information that compromised her, she knew it, and she had him strangled to death by one of her Red cohorts! My husband knew that she has a diary! It was in her dressing room, I am sure of it! Where is it? What did you do with it?"

Rows of eyes contemplated Carlotta in shocked silence.

Fernández regarded Carlotta inscrutably before he spoke again. "The Gestapo searched not only Sra. Daaé's dressing room, but all other dressing rooms, and I insist that nothing incriminating was found. If you expected a diary to be found, I must confess I am surprised. The only things encountered that were of any interest were a _Lives of the Saints_ and a missal."

Junyent, who had hovered nervously towards the back of the stage during the entire exchange, now moved to stand beside Fernández. "La Carlotta is distraught – quite understandable, under the circumstances. Our next production, as you know, will be 'Die Fledermaus.' In the interest of our dear Carlotta's continued health, we will cast Daaé in the more demanding role of Rosalinde. La Carlotta will play the Prince Orlofsky."

Once again, there was the murmur of low comments and the hiss of whispers from artists and crew. Junyent stood, white and trembling, on the stage, his dark eyes so wide that the whites could be seen clearly. Carlotta was trembling with some other emotion, and her skin had turned blotchy red-and-white with rage.

"You would consign me – me, _La Carlotta!_ – to a trousers role?" she barked. Her hands went to her ample hips, and there was a faint ripple of laughter throughout the theater. "Silence, you pigs!" she added, scanning the room. But her voice had wavered.

Christine felt an uneasy type of sorrow as she watched Carlotta turn on her heel to abandon the theater, goaded by the increasing volume of giggles and comments. _She's completely mad. And Erik, my Erik, killed her husband._


	19. Chapter 19

_Since [homosexuales] were an oppressed, marginalized, and persecuted sector of the population, blackmail of the homosexual by anyone was the order of the day: from the police to just about anyone who knew about it; these blackmailers enjoyed the shelter of legal impunity and social approbation._

 _– Grupo LGTB del PSM, "La homosexualidad durante el franquismo,"_ La Rep _ú_ blica Chueca

"You have powerful friends indeed," Fernández commented when Christine joined him and Margarita in her dressing room that evening. "I must confess that I was alarmed when the Gestapo insisted on scouring the building, but somebody must have known they were coming. Every last morsel of food disappeared from all the dressing rooms, down to the last bonbon! There was not a risque magazine in sight, either."

Christine nodded. Erik had been busy. "But I've never kept a diary in my life, Gonzalo," she said.

"Who knows what La Carlotta was talking about?" Fernández shrugged. "She has been so envious of your rising star that everybody is aware she's become unbalanced. It would be sad if it weren't so ludicrous. The woman _was_ well-connected, and did have relatives in high places in the _Partito Nazionale Fascista,_ but that was on her husband's side. And now he's gone."

"I didn't even know she _had_ a husband," remarked Marga.

"The harpy did indeed, and everyone sympathized with the poor man. They lived apart, and he did what he could to keep her happy, as she routinely threatened to return to him if her career didn't go well. They arrived as a couple in Spain, you know. She'd failed to gain an artistic foothold at La Scala. So, they thought to conquer in Spain using her husband's connections to Ciano. It worked for a while, as you well know."

Both Fernández and Marga glanced at Christine. Everybody at the Victoria remembered how Carlotta had arrived and immediately asserted herself over Christine. From one day to the next, Christine had lost her status as rising star and had been consigned to roles in the chorus. The quality of the Victoria's productions had suffered, and the artists and technicians had suffered Carlotta's temper. Yet nobody had dared say a word about the situation: Carlotta had spies everywhere.

"There are suspicions that Carlotta's husband was killed by the Gestapo. He was known for his clever poisons, and he may have killed the wrong person at some point."

Christine, who had been lost in thought, immediately looked at Fernández for any sign he might be alluding to Mamá Valerius. She had not mentioned the real cause of Mamá's death to either Marga or Fernández, and she wondered whether they knew somehow. Marga was flipping absently through the pages of an old fashion magazine, though, and Gonzalo was working irritably at a stain on his tie with his monogrammed handkerchief.

Fernández licked the handkerchief with his tongue and renewed his assault on the stain. "The rumors don't matter, though," he recommenced. "The person who will be arrested for the death of Carlotta's husband is to be Carlotta herself. She was becoming increasingly frustrated with his inability to protect her professional status – and we all know how unhinged she is now. This murder was surely _her_ doing."

* * *

Erik summoned Christine to his home that evening. The tired evening breeze stirred as she entered the Montjuic tunnels, but it did little to relieve the heat of the summer evening. The cool air of the study refreshed her overheated skin, and she closed the door quietly. Erik was at his secretary in shirtsleeves, writing furiously, the lines of his back visibly tense.

"It's nice and cool in here," she said as a tentative greeting, "and, did you notice, the Victoria just got a Westinghouse air conditioning system installed, so it's nice and cool in the theater, too, and...did _you_ kill Carlotta's husband, Erik?" The question came as a breathless near-whisper. Mentally, she kicked herself. She had rehearsed the question dozens of times, and this was not the way she had intended to ask it.

Erik straightened, stood, and whirled round to face her immediately. His pen was still clattering on the desk when he reached her and grasped her arms. In the dim light near the entry arch, shadows played on the bone-white of his mask while his bright eyes searched hers with mad intensity. "He plotted your death! He could not be permitted to live! You _knew_ I would kill to protect you. Why are you surprised now?"

He crushed her to himself frantically, and within the hard ribcage she could feel his heart drum.

Waves of shock at seeing Erik so undone radiated and tingled within Christine. Nothing had ever altered the haughty coolness of his demeanor – unless it was anger. Now, she felt his fear. His arms, whose strength she knew well, trembled. His eyes, whose intensity could burn her, were now focused on her with bottomless, dark terror in their depths.

Moments passed, with only the sound of his labored breathing to punctuate the silence between them. Finally, he seemed to recover himself. "You will leave this country with me soon. You are not safe here. The threats to your life are myriad now, and only begin with the Gestapo. Now I must even anticipate the actions of jealous colleagues like Carlotta! If you had tried any of that deadly aguardiente yourself, where would I be now?"

Christine was silent. Erik had presented her with the same demand as always – _Leave here with me!_ \- but, for the first time, Christine considered it seriously. Mamá was gone now, and Raoul seemed lost to her. _Raoul..._ She could summon up only a shadow of the emotion she had once felt at the thought of him.

"Unfortunately, I must go away now for several days, maybe weeks," Erik's voice interrupted her thoughts. "I must seal my reputation with the Allies by analyzing the contents of the U-434 just captured off the Portuguese coast. The irony is that I was instrumental in sinking it in the first place! I know what the English are looking for, and I will find it for them, however. After this last service to them, our passage to New York is guaranteed. It is only a question of weeks."

Christine thought. "If... _when_ I go away with you, what will become of my neighbors upstairs? They have children, and I've been giving them some of the food you've been giving me. And soon the father of that family will be gone. He can't get a job, so he's joined the Blue Legion. He hopes that his warring against communists will earn him official forgiveness for his support of the Republic."

There were many people with such hopes. There were no jobs to be found, even for people who were on the right side of the Regime politically. To make things worse, the British, incensed by the Blue Brigade, were strengthening their naval blockade of the Spanish coast in a move aptly named "the Squeeze." The drought continued, crops were scarce, aid blocked, and typhus and tuberculosis rife. The horsemen of the Apocalypse continued to gallop through Spain.

Erik watched her. "I will make provisions for that family of yours," he said gently, almost tenderly. "Anything you ask, Christine..."

She gasped out a bitter laugh. "Could you save my country, please?"

"Christine..."

"If the Allies win the war, will they remove Franco? They could...they could arrest him. They don't like fascists, either, do they?" She looked at him, waiting.

He closed his eyes and seemed to cough slightly. "I could lie to anybody but you, Christine. The English ambassador, Samuel Hoare, supports the Franco Regime. He's afraid that if Franco were ousted, the Germans would move to replace him with someone even friendlier to them...perhaps somebody who would commit to war on the Axis' side."

"But after the war? After Hitler?"

Erik remained silent.

* * *

Christine drowsed, nude, as Erik rose from the bed. After several minutes, he lit a candle, and she watched as the flame illuminated and shadowed, flicker by flicker, the jagged lines of his disfigurement. The unblemished side of his face remained in lunar shadow. He had donned a robe of black silk, but she could see the play of muscles in his taut frame as he straightened and turned to look down at her. She lay on her stomach, her fingers entwined flat under her chin, and smiled up at him. He stared down at her for several minutes, until she moved to sit up, but he stopped her.

"No; stay...I will play for you."

He left the bedroom with silent steps. She assumed that he would play the piano for her, as he often did. Instead, the sweet sound of a violin emerged from the study. She had never heard him play the violin, and she listened with a critical ear. With a delighted pang, she decided that his playing sounded just like her father's. The ghostly strains of "Clair de Lune" approached slowly. Christine propped herself on the mattress on her elbows, chin in hand and smiling, as she waited for her maestro to appear. When he did, she froze.

Her father's violin. Erik was playing her father's violin.

 _Breathe, Christine. Keep smiling._

No mistake; she knew the sound of it, recognized its colors – the exact shape of the scroll, and the little nick on one of the ebony pegs. She knew the exact way the f-holes were shaped. Nothing had been changed but the chinrest.

Years of hours of watching her father practice, listening to him perform with the same smile that she now forced to her face. _Keep smiling..._

Absence of feeling became a dagger, then a saber, twisting within her. _Keep smiling..._

She applauded at the end of the piece and distracted him by requesting another. Her thoughts swarmed in different directions until they settled on the most painful places they could find. Erik, the living _memento mori_ , was surrounded by objects of the dead. Who had died so that he could capture his magnificent dining-room table? Where were the rightful owners of his lovely silverware now? Buried in trenches beside roads, as so many people were? Or had they simply been bombed into oblivion by the Condor Legion?

Had Erik been involved in her father's death? Her thoughts centered on that one question now, then went farther. Had he even killed her father himself without knowing who he was? It was clear he was not aware that the violin had belonged to her own father...

She feigned sleep, schooling her muscles into complete relaxation. His hands covered her form with a soft blanket, and she could hear his voice – _his voice!_ – as he hummed one of the melodies he had just played.

Her eyes had been opened, and so had the gates to another hell. She had happily ignored the people Erik had hurt and killed. And why had she ignored them? The answer was clear now and clearly damning: She had ignored Erik's victims because, until now, she had not known herself to be one of them. She had coupled with the devil himself and was lying on those same sheets! In the study, a short piano phrase sounded, then was silent, followed by another. Erik was immersed in composition. Left to her thoughts, Christine spent the night without the succor of sleep.

* * *

The following morning, Christine rose and looked into the mirror. Her skin looked pale, and she pinched her cheeks, which brought a slight blush to them. She applied a discreet amount of greasepaint to conceal the circles under her eyes. She was no actress, her critics were fond of reminding her – but she would have to outdo herself to hide her state of mind from Erik, who _never missed a thing_.

"What the _hell_ did you put on your face?" was Erik's greeting as he presented her with breakfast. He produced an immaculate handkerchief, seized her chin, and scrubbed at the greasepaint.

"I just had to hide these _awful_ circles under my eyes, Erik," she said demurely, almost apologetically. "It's _that_ time of the month...it just started, and I look terrible!"

The subterfuge succeeded. Erik straightened up instantly, the visible side of his face reddening. He mumbled something about a compress and hurried out of the room. How could a man who had dealt death to so many, who had immersed himself in the business of blood, now blanch and blush at the thought of a woman's monthly?

Christine made use of his absence and prepared to leave, calling out to him that he shouldn't worry, that she was in a terrible hurry, that she had just forgotten something, that she would be seeing him whenever he returned from his trip.

She hurried into the tunnels. She had resolved never to see him again.

* * *

The first thing that Christine did was to move to a different dressing room at the Victoria. She thought about the fateful night she met Erik, and decided to avoid trapdoors as well.

"Moving up in the world now, aren't you?" said Marga, as she entered Christine's old dressing room. She tested the weight of one of the many boxes on the floor before lifting it. "About four trips should do it. So, why are you crying?"

Christine found her handkerchief. "Dust," she replied. "Just dust."

"Hmmm," mused Marga. "Well, it's about time you got a better dressing room now that you're going to be the Victoria's official diva..."

"Are they really going to _arrest_ Carlotta?" Christine whispered as she picked up another box.

"If Gonzalo says they will," said Marga. She shrugged. "Too bad. I was looking forward to seeing her stuff that huge rear end of hers into trousers! The menfolk will have to look at some other woman playing the role of Orlofsky. Speaking of dramas, have you talked with your beloved for me?"

Christine shook her head tiredly. Margarita had wanted Erik to intercede for her with Gonzalo Fernández. "Your man is known for being convincing," she had said. "Please get him to convince Gonzalo that we don't need to get married now! He's putting me under terrible pressure!"

But Christine had not even approached Erik about the favor. Now as the two women entered the new dressing room in a much noisier part of the theater, she put her box down and started to empty it of its contents: copies of librettos, vocalises, empty staff paper. A warmup exercise Erik had penned for her slipped to the floor, along with a withered rosebud. Christine picked it up. It had been pink in its day. It crumbled in her hand.

"Christine..." began Margarita impatiently.

"Please, Marga!" Christine interrupted in a heated whisper, "You don't know him! He'd end up killing Gonzalo's witch of a mother or something else equally horrible...!"

Marga only appeared impressed. "He'd do _that_ for us?"

A quick knock at the door interrupted them. Without waiting for permission, Junyent and his partner, Soler, entered, bearing a basket of roses.

"For our summer rose of a diva," Soler announced, and Christine smiled at him in spite of herself. She and the shy Soler had always been on amicable terms, and she was happy to see that he dared to speak now.

"The roses you gave me when I became the prima ballerina weren't so nice as these," complained Margarita archly, "but I'll forgive you both, since it happened during a December. Is Carlotta really willing to step down peaceably?"

"She hasn't even come in today," said Soler, and he executed a few dance steps in rapture. Margarita joined him in an improvised Flamenco-style dance, her hand curling gracefully above her head.

"Olé!" shouted Junyent and began to clap in rhythm to their dance.

Christine clapped, too, but her mind was elsewhere. Where was Carlotta? Had she been arrested?

Soler watched the two, and Christine noticed that his attention was focused on Junyent. How long had Carlotta bedeviled the couple?

"You know..." ventured Soler, leaning in her direction, "You'll also be Turandot after doing 'Fledermaus.' We've decided it already. You'll have the lead role!" He had not taken his eyes off of Junyent.

 _Turandot._ Christine's thoughts flew to Erik, of what a triumph for her teacher this was, but she beat them down with a single command to herself: _No!_


	20. Chapter 20

**Here, finally, is the Raoul chapter. Happy Halloween! :)**

* * *

 _Spanish Republicans ended up facing the whole gamut of horrors in many different Nazi camps, including Buchenwald, Bergen-Belsen, Dachau, Ravensbruck and Sachsenhausen in Germany, and Auschwitz and Treblinka in Poland. In Ravensbruck, there were 101 Spanish women who had belonged to the French Resistance._

 _-Paul Preston,_ The Spanish Holocaust

The streetcar screeched into motion, and Christine stood, holding onto the bar overhead. It was so full within that groups of men pushed and shoved to gain space. Some latecomers chased after the streetcar and jumped up onto the steps at the exits, eventually clinging to the outside of the wagon as it gained speed. The stench of summer sweat was overwhelming, and she decided that she would return home from her errand on foot. Inevitably, she felt curious eyes assessing her, staring. She glanced at the men who gaped at her through the window, even as they hung onto the jerking, rattling car for dear life. She glanced away, frowning, trying to clear her mind of the sorrowful stupor that had been clouding it lately. One of the men had looked disquietingly familiar to her. She did not just glance this time, but truly _looked_ at the man, who stared back. It was Raoul. The same heavy-lidded blue eyes, the same sandy brows, though now there was a deep line between them; the same fair hair, though more closely cropped now, with the sides shaven and topped with a workingman's cap; the same straight nose. Yet his once fair skin was weathered and coarse, and he appeared to have aged ten years since she last saw him – and he wore a carefully clipped beard now. He remained expressionless, but she realized that he was assessing her, too, and wondered what he saw. Tears distorted her vision.

 _The next stop!_ Not her stop, but she moved to alight. People rose from the seats, blocking her view of Raoul, and she moved at the shuffling gait imposed on her by the rest of the herd. She kept her head down. Could people tell she was overwhelmed? Surely it showed! Yet the group of passengers quickly separated into busy individuals once in the street, each intent only on whatever his errand of the moment was. She dared to lift her head and slowly looked around. No Raoul.

The streetcar lumbered into movement and slowly left her behind, screeching on hot metal tracks that glinted in the white sunlight. The people had disappeared, most of them intent on a midday meal prepared by some magician of a housewife who knew how to make the most of potato peels and orange rinds. Cicadas buzzed in a nearby group of pines.

Christine moved to the shade of one of the trees and wiped the perspiration off her brow with her knuckles, sighing and closing her eyes. The sound of a radio came, thin and tinny, through a window. Concha Piquer was singing "A la Lima y al Limón," her voice lilting through the lyrics: _...La vecinita de enfrente, no, no, / nunca pierde la esperanza. / Y espera de noche y de dia, sí, sí, / aquel amor que no pasa..._ Nothing seemed real. She leaned against the tree and closed her eyes.

"Christine?"

. _..A la Lima y al Limón, / que ya tengo quien me quiera / A la Lima y al Limón, / que no me quedé soltera..._

She turned and saw Raoul, halfway hidden behind a pine. He clutched his cap in one fist as he watched her, an air of uncertainty in his demeanor.

"Oh!" She ran to him and flung herself at him. Her embrace was awkward, her hands automatically seeking out a waist higher than his, a bony ribcage where there was flesh. His fragrance – of La Toja cologne, and something vaguely citrus – was redolent of another life. He held her with the ease of remembered familiarity, and she could see tears in his eyes as she looked up at him. Yet he was smiling.

"We'd better go someplace...discreet. We could get into trouble in public like this," Christine murmured, looking carefully around. The street still looked empty.

* * *

Raoul drummed his fingertips on the marble top of the table as his eyes darted around the cafe. They were at a small table near the wall, away from the tall windows, and the place was nearly empty. The ceiling fans revolved above them with a sleepy hum. "I didn't know that Gustave had died. I really didn't. I was with the last troops remaining in Andalusia, trying to put a hole in enemy lines and bait Franco's army away from Catalonia. So many men were deserting by then that we didn't bother shooting them anymore when they went over to the National side. Finally, they handed us bottles of gasoline, hoping we could stop tanks with Molotov cocktails. It was all too late...for anything. I couldn't let myself be taken prisoner, because they simply executed foreigners. Everybody in the International Brigades knew that. Not that many of us stayed on to fight."

Christine swallowed hard. "They certainly killed Papa." She thought about Erik for the millionth time, wondering what role he had played in his death.

"He died a hero, Christine."

"A hero? For _what_? Look at how the country is now. It was never any use trying to stop the fascists. They've always won and they always will!" Christine hissed bitterly.

An emaciated boy of about twelve, barefoot and dirty, came near their table as he picked up cigarette butts from the floor of the cafe.

"What the hell is _he_ doing?" Raoul asked.

"He's a _colillero_. They take whatever tobacco's left in the cigarette stubs and roll it into new cigarettes, then sell them. Or they just sell the tobacco loose."

"He looks starved!" Raoul was horrified.

"Everyone is, Raoul," said Christine softly. "And people are dying, more than ever. Do you remember Miguel Angel and his wife? The ones who were such marvelous artists? Well, he's gone. He died in prison. They had a baby, you know..."

She could scarcely breathe, remembering. On the way to the Victoria, she had passed their flat, seen the tiny white coffin borne on tired shoulders, the mother straggling helplessly behind, weeping.

"It's good that we never had children, Raoul." Her smile was bitter. "I thought you might have left me pregnant after your visit that time you were on leave. It wasn't so, though. And it's a good thing. I was so sure you would come back to me much earlier."

Raoul flushed with anger, but controlled his voice. "Why did you stay in this hell? Why didn't you evacuate to France when you had the chance?"

 _Because I was waiting for YOU!_ A feeling of betrayal welled up deep within Christine. "Mamá became very sick shortly after you left. Soon, she couldn't be moved. And I was waiting for _you_. You said you would return for us."

He shook his head tiredly. A battered lighter appeared in his hands, and he pulled a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and lit it. His arms, which had been so unblemished once, now bore silvery scars. Christine watched as he exhaled, and felt the distance between them, small as the table was.

"So, you've taken up smoking," she observed.

"Hmm, yes," he said, his eyes scanning the room once more. "Funny. I forgot that I didn't smoke before, when we were together." He looked at Christine now, apparently satisfied that the coast was clear. "I meant to come back for you, but I barely managed to cross the Pyrenees into France with what was left of my company after Madrid had fallen. My comrades went into the concentration camp at Argelès-sur-Mer. I was unmistakably French, of course. I was able to avoid internment, but I did not dare give away my identity, and I could not risk going back to Spain, where I had become too well known by the Nationals. I spent months trying to help the Spanish in the concentration camps – trying to get them food, trying to get them blankets, shelter, everything. Trying to keep the French government from sending my men back to Spain to be shot. That winter was horrible."

"I know," said Christine with some asperity. "We had that winter here, too. 1939 was a terrible year."

Raoul's eyes, which had been distant, focused sharply on her. There was no longer any tenderness about the way he looked at her, and Christine realized that he was staring at her critically, as if he considered her spoiled or pampered. Maybe she was, by his new standards. She sighed and nodded for him to continue.

His voice was expressionless. "Some of the men from the camps were recruited and helped dig trenches for the French army. But soon, the worst happened. The armistice in June, the Germans occupied the north, the traitor government established itself in Vichy...and I joined a group dedicated to resisting the Nazis."

Raoul paused, a hint of the softness Christine had missed in his eyes. There was an echo of passion in his voice. "I thought of you the whole time, Christine. Maybe you don't believe it now, but I did. At every brush with death – and I've had many – I thought only of you. In the trenches, sometimes waiting for days for the real fighting to start, I wasn't bored as the other men were. I thought of every conversation with you, relived every minute with you. I thought I'd make you proud of me at the beginning, then I just thought maybe I'd survive to see you again. In my mind, I just knew how you would look when I saw you again. But nothing, not even that, does you justice, Christine." For a moment, Christine could see the clear-eyed, tender lover he had been to her three years before. The illusion did not last; he took a long drag on his cigarette and his eyes focused on some point far beyond her.

"I was planning to return to you, and I even got false papers to cross the Pyrenees with. It was October, and the weather was still good. Then, a man contacted me. He was willing to help me organize a new Resistance cell made up of Spanish _Maquis._ Somehow, he knew who I was. He knew I could act as a pivot between the French and the Spanish fighters. I wasn't sure I could trust him at first, because he never showed himself to me. But he got us arms – good ones, and even nitroglycerine. Now I'm a leader of men once again. I've got seasoned Republican fighters with me – coal miners from Asturias who know exactly how to use dynamite, tough Basques who know their way around the passes in the Pyrenees blind, Catalonians, of course..."

Christine remained very still, carefully disciplining her features into polite interest. "You say this man came to you in October? And you never saw him?"

"Yes...it was October. He spoke with me from behind walls and other barriers whenever we met. You must understand the urgent need for discretion, however, in questions involving the Resistance."

"I will try," Christine responded quietly. "What was his voice like? At least you could describe that, couldn't you?"

A contemplative, almost wistful look came over Raoul, and Christine's heart sank. There was only one voice in all the world that could inspire that reaction. "This will sound odd to you," Raoul said, "but his voice was the most beautiful voice I've ever heard."

"It doesn't sound odd to me at all," Christine murmured.

* * *

The letters started arriving when Raoul had been in Barcelona for two weeks. The first one bore a wax fleur-de-lis outside on the envelope, and on the card within as well. Beneath the blood-red form of the lily, Erik had scrawled several lines from a Thomas Hardy poem:

 _Once, you, a woman, came  
To soothe a time-torn man; even though it be  
You love not _me _?_

So, Erik had returned from his trip, was demanding her presence, and was also letting her know he knew about Raoul. Christine sighed. She had hidden Raoul with the neighbors upstairs, who were all too eager help her. Her generosity in sharing her abundance of food with them had hurt them in their pride, and they reciprocated by hiding Raoul with scrupulous care, even affection. Yet somehow Erik had found out about him. She might have known better than to underestimate her mentor's sources and methods when it came to information. Now what? Would he come to kill Raoul? No, at least not right away. Erik was still interested in her, and he would not wish to alienate her – or alienate her _more_. He still did not know that she was never going to return to him, or why.

When a second letter arrived three days later, it bore more fleurs-de-lis than ever, all in blood red, and more Thomas Hardy:

 _You did not come,  
And marching Time drew on, and wore me numb._

It was now time to tell Erik that she would never see him again, and why. She followed the instructions he had given her months ago regarding how to send messages to him and, detaining the courier who had delivered the note, asked the boy to wait. She rummaged in the drawer, found the paper stamped with a basketweave pattern and incorporated Morse dots and dashes into the weave until she had formed a message that only Erik would decipher:

NO

YOUR VIOLIN WAS PAPA'S

YOU KILLED HIM

NEVER AGAIN

GOODBYE

She formed the page into an envelope, gluing it carefully, and put the pressed remnants of a rose that Erik had given her inside. Handing it to the courier, she went upstairs to see her husband.


	21. Chapter 21

_Pope Pius XII proclaims, "Out of Spain has come the salvation of the world...Spain is the nation chosen by God, an impenetrable bulwark of the Catholic faith."_

 _– Juan Eslava Galán,_ Los años del miedo

Father Efrén had never felt so old. As he entered the sacristy and prepared for early Mass, he thought of Rocio. He had sent her away as soon as Captain Oscuro had threatened to expose their marriage. Fortunately, it was a marriage that had been officiated in Portugal, and his superiors would not think to look in the parish registries in that country, but he missed Rocio and felt that he was losing another battle in a long war against loneliness. His was a loneliness born of having suffered the horrors of war without the ability to truly help anyone. His was a loneliness born of observing the hunger and poverty in homes all around him and being unable to intervene. He gave away what rations of his he could, but they would never be enough. The food that the women of the fascist _Auxilio Social_ distributed to the needy was a sad little drop in the bucket of dire need people faced. In the prisons, he heard the confessions of mothers whose babies were dying in the crowded cells with them; many no longer believed in God, for what loving father would let their innocent children suffer and die while the daughters of the rich got _Mariquita Perez_ dolls that were worth a month's wages? Many of the prisoners had never believed in the Almighty at all and awaited their fate with stolid, faithless resignation.

Rocio had been the only person who had made his loneliness bearable, and now she was no longer near him. Oscuro had begun to pull strings: The bishop had sent people to inquire about Rocio and the nature of their relationship, but the inquiry had been half-hearted. Many priests had much worse to hide than a wife, and Don Efrén was popular with his parishioners, some of whom were highly placed in the Regime. The priest enjoyed the support of unexpected allies.

But there was the fate of those three prisoners to consider. Father Efrén had put Captain Oscuro off so far, but the man was showing signs of impatience. He had checked the three prisoners on the list Oscuro had given him. They were all real men, all in prison for purely political reasons, all with families, all condemned to death. How to save them?

The priest understood why Oscuro wanted him to be the one to accuse Christine Daaé of crimes against the Regime. There were too many obscure forces surrounding the woman, some of them dangerous. There was Erik Deschamps, for one thing. If Oscuro were to accuse her alone, without the Gestapo or the secret police to accompany him like the rest of the bricks in an unbreakable wall, then he would be exposed to Deschamps' wrath. Yet Christine Daaé was popular in society now, and nobody wanted to see her as anything but a harmless widow with an enormous talent for singing opera. It was easy to see why Oscuro had not drummed up any support for an institutional accusation against her.

So it was to be he, Father Efrén, who would become the object of Deschamps' fury when Christine faced the firing squad. Perhaps. Did Deschamps care enough about Christine to defend her? The priest did not believe that the man was capable of _loving_ a woman, but he might be proud enough to avenge her death. On balance, then, he and Christine would die so that three men would live. The numbers still favored his betraying Christine.

Father Efrén had finished putting on most of his vestments and was just picking up his stole when he felt a familiar prickling sensation. Then came a whisper.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. Yet _you_ have as well..."

He had materialized near the door like a shadow, and he seemed to lengthen as he approached, gaining in proximity and height until he towered over the priest like a glowering demon. Something was terribly wrong. During the war, the priest had become accustomed to Deschamps' black moods and his sarcasm, but this was the darkest he had ever seen him.

"What has happened, Erik?" The priest's voice cracked. But perhaps death would be welcome.

"Tell me about that violin you sold me."

Everything came crashing into place.

"First of all, I did not tell Christine that her father's violin ended up with you. I was hoping to avoid trouble. You never wanted to know the provenance of the items you bought, and you demanded the utmost secrecy. Now, then – what do you wish to know about Gustave Daaé's violin?" Father Efrén turned and pulled a couple of rush chairs towards the center of the room so that they faced each other and gestured for Erik to sit down.

Erik remained standing, but he had lost his intimidating mien. His hands fisted and unfisted at his sides, and when he finally spoke, his voice was oddly bereft of expression. "It is – _was_ \- her father's violin, then. I never suspected that you, of all people, would sell off the possessions of poor executed prisoners!"

"During the brief time I knew him, Gustave became a friend of mine. He was a gentle man, and he should never have gotten mixed up in the war. I tried to appeal to the National officers to save his life, but they wouldn't consider it. He was lucky to have lived as long as he did – the foreigners he was with were shot on the spot. The Nationals didn't take foreigners prisoner, as you know. But there was something about the man that inspired the deepest regret. Do you know that sort of otherworldly quality Christine seems to have?"

" _Angelic_ ," supplied Deschamps in a hoarse whisper.

The priest directed an inquisitive glance at his guest. "All right. _Angelic_ , if you wish. She gets it from her father. All he wanted to do was give music to the Republican troops. He saw them as poor children who were caught up in the maw of something evil. I happened to agree with him.

"I told Gustave I would give Christine the few sad possessions he had left, whenever I had the chance, but I knew she would not be receiving the violin. I had to do something about his burial. Gustave remained a Protestant, you know, even though he had permitted his daughter to be raised a Catholic. I could not bear the thought of them burying him off by himself in some roadside ditch, away from the shriven Catholic souls. The logical place to inter him was in the Protestant cemetery in Barcelona, where he would rest with dignity. I needed money for the enterprise, though. You had mentioned that you needed a violin. You know the rest of the story," Father Efrén finished with a sigh.

"She refuses to come to me now. She thinks...she thinks I had something to do with the death of her father!" Erik's tone was one of stifled agony.

 _He loves her_ , the priest thought, fighting to hide his shock. It took him a second to respond. "Have you told her the truth? That you had nothing to do with his death?"

"I shall tell her, but...in truth, I could easily have been the one who killed her father. Oh, no, Father, I'm not saying that I did in fact, but I dispatched so many souls to their Maker! Many were just as innocent as Gustave Daaé." He wrung his long fingers with regret. "I've lulled her suspicions to sleep, Father. I thought that she would never awaken to what I really am."

Father Efrén knew that he would have to tread carefully. For whatever reason, Erik, the wartime companion who had bedeviled him with questions of theology and outright challenges to his faith, had learned regret. And against all odds, the man was in love. The priest had never wished more fervently than now that he could break the secret of confession, that he could use Christine's own words to stanch the man's wound, but he _could not_. He wracked his brains for what words he could use. "Erik, I don't believe you have been killing _innocent_ people lately, have you?"

Erik closed his eyes. "Killing...the _hunt._..used to please me, Father. Now I cannot stomach it! She took that from me, you know. Oh, but what she _gave_ me in exchange!" His voice had risen to a howl, and the priest looked towards the door leading to the nave nervously, worried lest any parishioners should hear.

This was new territory for Father Efrén. Erik had always been in control of himself to the point of seeming devoid of all feelings. He had often baited the priest with theological quandaries and frank allusions to evil, watching for the priest's faith in God to show some visible sign of flagging. Yet Erik had not succeeded in weakening the man. Perhaps it was because the priest did not embrace dogma, preferring to believe that no man could decipher the mystery of God's nature. When Erik pointed out that Father Efrén was a heretic, the priest had merely shrugged. None of Herr Deschamps' barbs had ever hit home. The way the man extracted information from prisoners, though, had troubled the Franciscan greatly. Father Efrén was an intuitive man with long experience dealing with the human race, and he knew that Erik's rage and hostility were born of deep pain. The stories Erik told him of his past bore this conviction out. He also knew that there was something much deeper within the mercenary than his cruelty, though he could not define it. Now, as he witnessed the depth of Erik's agony, the priest also recognized the breadth of the man's capacity to love.

"How can I help you, Erik?" the priest finally asked.

Erik seemed to remember his pride, and he drew himself up. His eyes recovered some of their customary fire, and his voice was smooth once more. "I would like to request that you render some small service to me at a future time...without questions."

"What are you asking me to agree to?"

"Nothing illegal, illicit, or immoral, I assure you," Erik replied lightly. "And you would have my deep gratitude, Father, of course. I see you hesitate. No doubt there is something that _I_ can do for _you_ in exchange."

Father Efrén had tried to hide his sudden inspiration, but Deschamps' expert eye had noticed his change of expression. Now it was time to bargain, and those who haggled with the mercenary inevitably received the short end of the deal. Nonetheless, there were the lives of three men to think of, and the priest had spent many a sleepless night trying to figure out how he could avoid testifying against Christine as Oscuro wished him to do. He had even gone to visit the judge and the police on behalf of the three prisoners, hoping to sway them. They had been surprised that the men were to be executed rather than receiving life sentences, as was usual in such cases as theirs. Yet the priest had no money for bribes, and his status as a man of the cloth failed to impress them. The prisoners would meet their fate, sooner or later. It was only a question of time, and Oscuro had visited him on more than one occasion to let Father Efrén know that time was running out.

Many times, Father Efrén had been tempted by the thought that Erik Deschamps wielded the power and influence necessary to help with the problem. Christine was _his_ concern, after all, and it was her relationship with Deschamps that had attracted Oscuro's unwelcome attention to her. Yet there was only one, inevitable outcome the priest could envision if he were to break silence and enlist Deschamps' help: Oscuro's certain death – without any guarantee that the men scheduled for execution would be saved. Deschamps, he knew, would be indifferent to the fate of such hostages.

Now, however, he was in a position to bargain with Deschamps. Whatever the man wanted could weigh nothing when balanced against the lives of three souls. Besides, he knew Deschamps to be a man of his word above all things, and if he secured a promise...he would finally know peace. And much as he disliked Oscuro, he could omit any mention of him and thus avoid any unnecessary bloodshed.

"Very well, Erik. If you help me with a very noble cause, I will do whatever _morally correct_ thing you have in mind."

The intake of breath and satisfaction in Deschamps' eyes alarmed Father Efrén, but not enough to cause him to reconsider.

"I'm late for Mass now, Erik. Could we talk further afterwards, please?" Father Efrén was _very_ late now, and he had always been noted for his punctuality.

Deschamps' next words astonished the priest. "I will attend Mass, Father. Oh, you need not worry, I've no intention of trying to take communion! I shall pray for a moment of peace."

Erik Deschamps, _praying_?

"That pup de Chagny is in town, and I must pray to whatever gods exist for the fortitude to refrain from killing him, Father. It would upset Christine, you see. Yet he would do well to leave quickly..." Deschamps' fingers twitched.

"He's her husband, Erik," Father Efrén said quietly.

To the priest's surprise, Deschamps smiled. "No, Father. He is not."

* * *

"Why on earth don't you just fire Paqui?" Raoul asked Christine, his hands gripping his knees hard in frustration.

They were in the neighbors' flat upstairs, seated at the tiny kitchen table. The sounds of the children playing in the next room nearly drowned out their conversation if they spoke too softly. If they spoke more loudly, there was not even the illusion of privacy.

"I've tried to fire Paqui several times, Raoul. I don't even pay her anymore! But she has a key and lets herself in," Christine replied.

Christine now considered Paqui to be a blessing in disguise. Invasive as the woman was, her dour presence kept Raoul in hiding upstairs. He could not dream of installing himself in her flat or even visiting her there while Paqui patrolled the area. A feeling of shame invaded Christine. What kind of a wife was she? She could barely tolerate the chaste kisses she shared with Raoul without a visceral feeling of disgust. What had Erik done to her?

Six weeks had passed since Raoul's arrival, and their frustration with each other was near boiling point. He was clearly eager to resume a physical relationship with his wife, but each stolen kiss was a source of revulsion to Christine. It did not help that he reeked of tobacco these days, and she let him know it. They fought over small things and never managed to speak of the deeper matters that affected them both.

Now, though, Raoul made an effort. "Christine, I've told you that we need to leave this country together. I've just received a letter from my brother – yes, dear, we both used false names! – and he's willing to let you use one of the flats we have in Paris. He's willing to accept you now..."

"Is he? Well, that's most kind of him. Especially after all the things he called me," said Christine. Her younger self would have been delighted without reservations at her acceptance by the _comte_ de Chagny. Yet she now realized with both pride and dismay how far she had come since those meek young days. "And I suppose I could sing at the Palais Garnier," she added, knowing that it would goad him. She had triumphed in " _Die Fledermaus_ ," thanks to what she had learned from Erik; now rehearsals were underway for "Turandot," and she would have the principal role. _The ice princess, the destroyer of men._

Raoul did not respond immediately, but he took out a cigarette and stared at it longingly, then at Christine. "You have nothing to keep you here now. I'm sorry that Mamá died, but she's gone now and you have no responsibility to anyone. This place is bad for you now, Christine. You're nervous as a cat! I don't know why you won't be seen in public with me, people won't even remember me – and if they do remember me, they won't know me now, with my beard..."

"There are spies _everywhere_ , Raoul!" Christine cut in, repeating the truth to him for the thousandth time. She closed her eyes, took a steadying breath, and rose abruptly to check the pressure cooker. Thanks to Raoul's continued presence at the upstairs flat, Christine often cooked for the entire family. It was an odd situation – Maria Luisa, her three children, Raoul, and Christine passed entire afternoons together, forming an ersatz family. Photographs of Felipe, Maria's absent husband, hung on the walls. He was fighting with the Blue Division at the Russian front, and Christine would deliver _La Vanguardia_ to the family so they could follow events there. The newspapers were filled with romanticized reports of the division's successes at Novgorod.

Raoul approached her and wrapped his arms around her from behind, and Christine did her best to keep her muscles from stiffening in protest. _I love him, I do...it's just that..._

She had said nothing about her activity as a spy to Raoul. She had certainly said nothing about Erik to him. She went to shows, rehearsals, and weekly recitals as she always had, though she was careful never to be alone. It helped to be kept busy; it was easier for her to ignore her pain. The snatches of poetry Erik sent demanding her presence still arrived regularly, but Paqui overlooked them, falling into the intended trap of thinking they were more fan mail for Christine.

Continuing his hold on her, Raoul pressed his lips to Christine's neck. This time, she stiffened. The smell of nicotine nearly made her retch. A childish giggle from the doorway gave her the excuse she needed to move away from her husband. Manuelito pointed gleefully at her and hooted as Raoul shooed him back into the living room.

Raoul turned back to Christine, his patience clearly frayed. "I need to get back to my organization, Christine. I've permitted us to remain in Barcelona for much too long. I've been as patient with you as I can be, my love, believe me. But as soon as 'Turandot' ends, it's time for us to travel back to France. I have it all planned out."

Christine heard what Raoul was saying, but only vaguely. She was staring at the envelope that Raoul had left on the kitchen table. "Is that the letter that Philippe sent you, Raoul?"

"Of course...I was telling you..." he began, but lapsed into silence, watching as Christine turned the envelope over, examining every inch of it.

"What's wrong?" he finally asked.

Christine offered him a wobbly smile and put the envelope down. "I'm just a silly fussbudget, Raoul. I was just checking to make sure that the censors didn't see it."

"Oh, don't worry, love. There was no sign of tampering at all, and we were very careful. Though I think Philippe could have been a bit more sparing with the fleurs-de-lis! Imagine stamping so many of them all over the back of the envelope. Good old Gallic pride! Well, he's always been that way," Raoul reminisced, now fidgeting with the unlit cigarette once more.

Christine nodded, still staring at the red fleurs-de-lis decorating the envelope, and the encoded message that only she could perceive: _I know_.


	22. Chapter 22

_By order of the most excellent civil governor of the province, two farmers of Sabadell, Jaime Gubero Mana and Jaime Tarte Sallent, have been jailed and placed at the disposition of the illustrious prosecutor of Tributes for not complying with the orders dictated by the civil governor regarding the digging up and collecting of the potato harvest._

 **–** La Vanguardia, _September 10, 1941_

"It's just wonderful to have a Carlotta-free theater at last," sighed Margarita happily as they left the Victoria for after a very strenuous rehearsal. "Wasn't it peaceful onstage today?"

Christine turned incredulous eyes towards Marga. Joan Pursals, the production's director, had spent an entire hour screaming at the chorus and many of the dancers. He had a vision – and it included extravagant costuming, dragons, fireworks, and smoke. The choreography was the most demanding Christine had ever seen.

"Aren't your feet sore? Aren't they _bleeding_ by now, Marga? What kind of peace did Pursals give _you_?" Christine asked.

"And aren't _you_ just half-dead from singing your lungs out? I've never seen _you_ work so hard, _chica_ ," Marga retorted. "But you and I are the same. Would you trade your principal role for anything in the world?"

Christine was silent. She was obsessed by her role. Turandot was the most beautiful, difficult character she had ever sung. It made her feel too green, too young.

"You're obsessed, too," she finally said, smiling at Marga.

"You bet I am," Marga responded with a grim smile. " _This_ is what it is to dance. I'll be soaking my feet tonight, and you'll be gargling with...whatever it is you singers gargle with, but we'll both be thinking about tomorrow's rehearsal all night, won't we?"

"Of course," lied Christine. Her thoughts were filled with Erik, much as she tried to supplant all her memories of him with the new reality of Raoul. "Turandot" made things worse. She knew that her teacher had invested much of himself in training her voice for just such a role. As she practiced in her flat, as she was wont to do these days, she could feel Erik circle her appraisingly, scanning for any lapse in technique. She could hear his voice correcting her, and she felt his thrill of pleasure whenever she excelled. She shook her head. She was a sorry case indeed.

Mentally sweeping the ghosts from her mind, Christine placed her hand in the crook of Marga's elbow as they walked down the Avenida del Paralelo. Light still lingered, though the days were shortening. Late summer was giving way to autumn, though afternoons were still hot. Marga pulled at her gloves as Christine fanned herself.

"What do you think became of Carlotta, Marga?" Christine finally asked the question that had been tantalizing her for weeks. Rumors had abounded that the diva was to be arrested, but no arrest had taken place. Instead, the woman had simply vanished, it seemed.

Marga shrugged. "Who knows? I'm just glad she's gone. Gonzalo doesn't know anything about her whereabouts, if that's what you suspect. I'm surprised your man hasn't filled you in, much as he seems to know about everything and everyone."

Christine suppressed her wince. She had told no one that she had abandoned Erik, not even Father Efrén, who she was currently avoiding.

"Some folks think she ran screaming home to Italy, and some folks think she sleeps with the fishes," Marga continued cheerfully. "Really, you should spend more time at the Victoria if you want the latest gossip. I don't know why you've been such a stranger lately. Don't you like to practice in your new dressing room?"

"No – the acoustics are all wrong," Christine replied.

"Ouch! You've just clamped down on my elbow too hard – what's wrong with you, Christine?" Marga was now studying her in a way that Christine did not at all like.

"I...I just have somewhere to go...I'm sorry, Marga, I can't have coffee with you right now..." She lifted her hand to call an approaching taxi.

"Where are you going?"

"To the cemetery. I want to visit my father's grave before it gets dark and check to make sure it's clean."

 _A moment of peace, to be left to my own thoughts. Where else can I go but to a cemetery?_

The taxi pulled away from the curb as Marga watched, her brow furrowed.

* * *

Another kindness Erik had done for Christine was to provide a marble stone for her father's niche, complete with engraving: "Gustave Daaé – March 5, 1888 – January 23, 1939. _Musician_." Her father's entire substance was described in that one word. Christine decided that he would have approved.

There was also a glass cover over the marble with a vase for cut flowers incorporated into its bottom. Erik, true to style, had spared no expense. As Christine moved closer to the niche, though, she noticed something shadowy moving between the marble and glass: wasps had moved in somehow and built a nest there. As they sensed her draw near, they stilled in their work, antennae stiffening, wings spreading to attention. She did not dare pull the dead flowers from the vase. She dithered, staring at the wasps as they stared back at her, neither side ready to fight or to fly. The sun gradually dipped down over the horizon.

"Having trouble with pests, my dear?" Erik's voice was sardonic, and he drew out each syllable with icy contempt. He approached from the shadows, and Christine kept still as a dazed deer; within her, her heart leaped.

He passed her without seeming to look at her as he approached the niche's glass cover, but Christine felt the electricity of his awareness of her burn throughout her.

"Certainly, _these_ are a nuisance easier to dispose of than certain others," Erik murmured as he observed the wasps. He seemed to be rubbing something onto one of his dark gloves, but his gaze flicked to Christine.

She felt her heart would break within her, so filled were his eyes with an implacable arctic fire. The desolation there was endless, and something within her drew her to his side against all conscious will. She stood inches from him, looking up at him.

"You will come back to me," he said simply, his voice stripped of all contempt. "Christine..."

She noticed that he was gaunt now – not that he had not been thin before, but he had clearly not been eating at all. She watched, suspended in time, as he peeled her glove gently away from her skin. His lips grazed her knuckles, and she felt his hot breath as he looked down at her once more. His fingertips moved the net covering her forehead and eyes, pulling it up over her hat. Then, finally, his lips were on hers, ravenous in their need.

" _Christine!_ " Raoul's voice broke her from her trance, and she jerked back half a step. "Get away from him!"

Erik appeared to lean against the glass on the niche. "You dare to cross me, de Chagny?" His words vibrated with something more dangerous than a threat.

"Whoever – _whatever_ – this thing is, Christine, you can't let him have control over you! Come with me, now!"

Christine looked at Erik, and waves of sheer terror shook her. Never had she seen him this way: towering, dark, sinister, lethal, with the cold amber eyes of something feral – all that, united with the calculating mind of the genius. This was the Erik his victims saw. He was looking at Raoul – and Raoul, the brave, the foolhardy Raoul, was standing his ground!

Erik was the first to move, and it was almost imperceptible. Before either Raoul or Christine knew it, something in flames was flying towards the young man. The bodies of several wasps dropped, charred, to the ground, but the rest of the colony liberated itself from the burning nest and hurtled, hellbent, towards Raoul. As they surrounded him, he refused to run away or scream, but he grunted and swatted at the insects furiously as they stung him.

"Run, Raoul!" Christine heard the sharp intake of Erik's breath as she jerked away from him, breaking his concentration. As she flew towards Raoul, a stray wasp attached itself to her ear and stung her, but she barely swiped at it before she seized her husband's arm and pulled him into motion.

" _Christine!_ " Erik's voice seemed to issue from all sides of them to form a booming chorus of anger and anguish.

Raoul paused. "What the hell?"

But Christine pulled him into a run once more. "We need to get home. Please, Raoul!"

A dark shadow pursued them until they stumbled, breathless, through the cemetery's gates.

* * *

As soon as they had arrived at the building on the Ronda de Sant Pau, Raoul went to the upstairs flat, only to reappear minutes later with a toolbox. Christine watched wordlessly as he set to work, carefully removing the screws from the lock on her door. A new lock of gleaming brass awaited, ready to substitute the old one.

The terrible silence stretched on as Raoul worked and was only interrupted by sound of metal on metal, and the occasional rattle of the contents of his toolbox as his hand searched blindly within it for various tools. A sheen of sweat covered his face, and his eyes were expressionless yet shadowed somehow.

Christine went to the kitchen and poured water into a glass. She returned to the living area and approached her husband, silently offering it to him. Raoul remained bent over his work, seemingly oblivious to her presence. There were stings, little red welts, dotting the weathered skin of his broad hands. Just when she was about to give up and withdraw the proffered glass, he straightened, looked directly at her, and, seizing the glass, hurled it against the nearest wall. It shattered into a thousand wet shards.

"Are you proud of yourself?" he asked, his voice even and cold.

Years before, such a scene might have reduced Christine to tears. Now, she merely looked at Raoul and felt that this icy incarnation of of him was a stranger to her.

"When did you learn to change locks?" she inquired, refusing to be intimidated by him.

"I'm not the useless eunuch that I once was, Christine," he responded with a grimace of contempt. "You seem intent on mocking me in my manhood, though, don't you? I was told you had a lover but didn't believe it till now. Who is he, dear wife?"

Christine met his gaze in silence and watched, detached, as he shook his head and turned to finish his work.

"He doesn't visit me here in my home, Raoul," Christine finally said. "He doesn't have a key, so you don't need to change the lock." _And no lock can keep Erik out, anyway,_ she added to herself.

It occurred to Christine that the new lock would keep Paqui out, though. Perhaps it was for the best. She had decided long ago that Paqui spied on her on Erik's orders.

"If it's any comfort to you, it's over now. It's been over for a while," Christine ventured.

Raoul threw the screwdriver into the toolbox and turned, advancing on Christine as he wiped his hands on a rag.

"What I saw at the cemetery does not lead me to believe your little _affaire_ is by any means over," he said. "Perhaps he knows I'm with you? Perhaps he feared me enough to stay away once I arrived in town? Well, if he thinks I will let him near you again, he is mistaken..."

Christine cringed at this, but she forced herself to remain calm and think. "You said you were informed I had a lover. Is that why you were following me about, even to the cemetery? Who told you this?"

"A few months ago, I received a message. It said I needed to go home, that my wife had taken a dangerous lover. That was the exact phrase, Christine! 'A dangerous lover.' I put aside all I was doing to come here, for you..."

"Because someone told you I was unfaithful," Christine interrupted. "I see. I could be starving, injured, ill, imprisoned, or anything else, and you wouldn't have come home, but you'll drop the entire war if you suspect me of _infidelity_."

"It was the first news I'd had of you. I'd always thought you could take care of yourself. You've always been strong, Christine, always. That's one of the reasons I was so surprised when some anonymous person – well, she gave her first name only – wrote me you were being unfaithful..."

"A _woman_ told you?" Christine pounced.

"Someone called Gloria. Somehow her message found me. Is she a friend of yours?"

"No," Christine responded, but she felt a stirring of anger. Gloria had refused to give _her_ information regarding Raoul's whereabouts with the excuse that she was protecting him and his efforts in the Resistance. Yet the woman had taken it upon herself to send Raoul a message, a message that had so inflamed his jealousy that he had come running to fascist Spain. A flash of clarity illuminated Christine's thoughts: _This was Gloria's revenge against Erik for having her sacked._ Erik had been completely right to remove her – but he could not have anticipated the trouble the woman would cause.

"I'll be staying in your flat with you now, and Paqui can just go to hell," Raoul interrupted Christine's thoughts. "You and I will be the only people with the key to _this_ lock. I've had enough of being locked out of your life. You're my wife and I'm your husband, and I love you. I understand that you've been lonely; I've been lonely, too, though I've kept myself busy and well distracted. I won't ask you about that creature you've been seeing – _Erik_? Was that his name?"

A wave of heat rose within Christine, but she quickly used reason to short-circuit her anger. She strove to imagine herself as Raoul saw her: A vapid opera singer, his childless wife, the woman who had nothing better to do with her time than sing at fetes and benefits and entertain frivolous dalliances. He had come from the trenches of France, from whatever hideaways those fighting the Nazis used, and he had experienced unspeakable things. He had grown into the hero that he had always wanted to be, but she herself had become lost to him in that process. All the hunger, the fear, the tribulations she had faced in his absence...he could not imagine these if she were to tell him about them, and she was certainly not going to tell him about her work as an agent.

Still, Raoul had called Erik a "creature," and something in Christine wished him to suffer for it.

"Have you been enjoying my cooking lately, Raoul? Have you ever wondered how it is that I receive crates of food at odd hours of the early morning? I'll tell you: You've been filling your stomach courtesy of my lover. It's true that I ended our affair, but he still sends me provisions. You've said you find me thin? Well, you'd have found me a lot thinner without his help. I suppose, Raoul, that I'm no different from those women you see walking the street in rags, looking for men who'll give them food in exchange for...well, you know what. I'm a real whore, aren't I, dear? But at least it keeps _you_ eating!" She smiled her icy best as she said this, and was rewarded by Raoul's rapid change in color.

He advanced on her in two strides and gripped her by the shoulders. Christine closed her eyes, preparing for a blow, but he released her and she heard a muffled sob. She opened her eyes. Raoul had turned away from her, but his shoulders shook with grief. Her heart broke within her. The same peaceful boy who would never had dreamed of harming her was still there, deep inside this tormented man.

"Christine...please...I promise I will be a better, more attentive husband to you. We can start again, once this war is over..." Raoul regained control of himself and faced Christine, his rough hands extended.

Christine exhaled and nodded. "I'd like that, Raoul. But to do that, we'll have to get married."

Raoul stood stock-still, staring at Christine as if she had gone mad.

"The Regime voided all civil marriages that took place during the times of the Republic, Raoul. All of the entries in the civil registries from those days have been declared null. Only those marriages done through the Church are recognized by the state. And all the divorces have been declared void, too, so you can imagine how happy people are..."

"Then we'll get married by a priest, Christine," Raoul said quietly. "We'll have it done as soon as possible."

"But you loathe the Church on principle, Raoul!"

"I've learned through bitter experience that the ends often justify the means, Christine. Please – tell me we can begin again."

She nodded hesitantly.

Cocooned in Raoul's embrace, Christine resolved to be a good wife to him. The dull ache in her heart would not last. She would defeat it.


	23. Chapter 23

**Many thanks, as always, to those who continue to read this story - and special thanks to those who take the time and trouble to review.**

 **One little note: In my last chapter, it was clear that Christine and Raoul's marriage had been nullified by the Regime. Divorces were also nullified if the wedding had been a Church wedding. The idea was that the Church was the supreme authority on social issues. No marriage outside the Church was viewed as legitimate. No divorce that sundered a marriage officiated by the Church was viewed as legitimate. You cannot imagine how many lives this affected and in how many ways, as many people had been married by civil authorities rather than the Church. There were many cases of people who had been divorced and had married a new spouse in secular rites. They now found themselves legally married once more to a long since estranged first spouse. The new laws wreaked havoc on many lives.**

* * *

 _London, 6th August - The "Daily Sketch" calls on women to participate actively in the war and gives them the following advice: "Ladies, whenever you see enemy motorized vehicles, throw bottles and bits of glass into the road. This will stop them and permit the British army to take charge of them." The above-mentioned daily also asks that women obstruct combat tanks by running wire across the streets and adds: "Now, then, if you lack the courage necessary to contain the enemy, lock your house and save yourself by taking refuge in the nearest wood. By the following day the enemy will probably be far away, and you can return." Additional advice includes how to deal with enemy paratroopers._

– La Vanguardia, _August 7, 1940_

Autumn arrived. Christine's days were filled with rehearsals, with letters from Erik that she threw away without reading them, with Raoul's presence in her flat at night. At lunchtime, they tuned the Emerson radio to the Radio Badalona station and opened the windows, letting the music of Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, Strauss and Brahms attest that their political views were in perfect lockstep with the Regime. The news included the usual breathless adulation of Hitler's latest speech and of Franco's heroic benevolence. Charles Lindbergh inspired sympathy as he inveighed against the "megalomaniac" American president, Roosevelt, in his efforts to keep the United States from entering the war. Meanwhile, Germany needed "producers" – not "workers," that word was too Red – to help man its factories. Spanish men were invited to emigrate to Germany to work long hours and earn paltry wages for the noble Nazi cause.

At night, Christine closed the shutters and lit candles, and she and Raoul tuned the radio to the clandestine _Radio Pirenaica_ or the BBC, carefully turning down the volume as the first notes of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony announced the news. Without Paqui to eavesdrop, she was finally able to listen to the Allies' account of the war, and her eyes were opened.

Not that Paqui hadn't returned after Raoul had changed the lock. The morning after he had changed it, the sound of a key being inserted into the lock could be heard, followed by the desperate clicking sounds of someone trying to turn it but failing. A knocking on the door came next, and soon the knocking became pounding.

"Go away, Paqui!" Christine had shouted. "Go away now, or I'll get the police. I've told you your _services_ are no longer required, and I mean it!"

The pounding had continued for some minutes, but eventually Paqui had given up – only to repeat the performance for three more mornings. Eventually, she gave up completely, or so it seemed.

Raoul continued to hide in Christine's flat during most of the day. Sometimes he would slip out to buy tobacco or bread from the women who sold contraband on the street corners. He kept well out of view of the police, but Christine became nervous and scolded him. The more she scolded him, the more he seemed to relish living dangerously.

Christine knew that Raoul resented her, and she knew exactly why. The very first night he had installed himself in her flat, she had left the bathroom in her nightgown to find him waiting for her, reeking of tobacco as he smoked – in her bed. After a tense verbal battle, she had succeeded in throwing him out of her bedroom, and he had not forgiven or forgotten it since. Raoul's frustration over his need to return to his responsibilities in France did not help the situation. They had agreed that Christine would finish her role as Turandot and that they would leave Spain and get married immediately after closing night. Yet that was not soon enough for Raoul, who paced the flat like a prisoner.

It became a relief to leave her home for rehearsals. Much as Christine had feared that Erik would cause trouble for her at the Victoria, he had never materialized. She began to relax, to enjoy the hard work that rehearsals offered her. The new dressing room, free of cigarette smoke, was the perfect place for Christine to practice her role. Marga would often stop by to visit to listen and chat.

"Opening night's only a week away! Are you coming to the party tonight?" Marga asked one afternoon. "This one's for everyone, down to the stagehands. Much more fun than those snobby meet-and-greets we always have to attend."

The idea of escaping another evening with Raoul was tempting. She hesitated.

"Good, that's settled, then," concluded Marga. "We'll see you there."

* * *

Accordion music greeted Christine as she entered the Victoria's grand hall. The stage was filled with cast and crew members and their wives, friends and lovers. Many were dancing near the back of the stage, while most milled about some folding tables where an impromptu bar had been set up.

Christine moved towards the stage, stopping to chat with groups of colleagues milling around the plush seats of the audience level. She spotted Marga waving at her from the stage, but her beeline was interrupted by a familiar voice.

"Señora Daaé...what a delight to find you here tonight!"

It was José Luis Oscuro. Her life had been mercifully free of the man for months, and she had not questioned whatever kind Fate had removed him from her path. Christine sighed, yet felt a cold tension stiffen her gait as she halted. As she turned to regard the policeman, her tension turned to surprise: he was escorting a buxom, elegantly-attired young woman towards her.

"Do forgive me for having been unable to attend your concerts lately, señora Daaé." His tone was more unctuous than ever. "Permit me to introduce you to the reason for my neglect. My new bride, the señora Maria Teresa Hidalgo."

"My most sincere congratulations!" Christine hid her shock and gave the woman the obligatory kisses, one on each powdered cheek. The mink stole Oscuro's bride wore was new – no mangy old relic, this one, and her perfume was an expensive brand that Erik had once given _her_.

A hand clamped around Christine's upper arm just as Oscuro was drawing nearer. "Don't jump so! It's only me! Are you coming or not?" asked Margarita, and she started to pull Christine towards the stage.

"Please excuse me," Christine said by way of farewell to the newlywed couple as she permitted herself to be borne off by her friend. A quick glance at Oscuro revealed a grimace of resentment, but his bride merely stared after Christine impassively.

"That man! I can't believe he came here tonight. I guess he just wants to rub it in," Marga said between gritted teeth.

"Rub what in?" inquired Christine.

"He didn't tell you? He's been promoted. Quite a lot. He's a _comandante_ now and actually outranks Gonzalo in the _Brigada Político-Social_."

Christine halted so suddenly that Marga, who was still pulling on her, recoiled against her. Someone laughed, but the women ignored it.

"How did _that_ happen?" Christine gasped. The air had left her lungs.

"That Hidalgo girl he married is the daughter of a very prominent colonel," Marga replied with some bitterness. "Gonzalo's not here, you'll notice. He's very upset. _Comandante_ Oscuro hasn't been subtle about his triumph. He's jumped seniority on Gonzalo, and he's not the kind of man you want as your boss, understand..."

"I understand!" Christine interjected.

"And I still won't marry Gonzalo, and here comes this friend of his and gets married after a whirlwind courtship. Doesn't even invite him to the wedding."

The sound of a violin rose over the accordion, and the tempo of the music changed abruptly. The people who had been dancing looked at each other sheepishly and straggled towards the tables where the refreshments were.

"A _tango_! Oh, Anselmo, you're absolutely shameless!" Marga shouted at the violinist and was rewarded with a devilish smile. Another violinist strode over to join his colleague in a duet. It was a piece made popular by Carlos Gardel, "Golondrinas," but nobody dared to dance to it.

It was a challenge that Marga could not resist. She strode to the dance floor and waved a young man over. "Come on, Antonio. I know you can do this!"

People crowded round the couple to watch. Marga was like fire in the wind when she danced, and the privilege of seeing her breathing life into the tango was something few wished to miss. Antonio was talented, too, and Christine watched, mesmerized, as the couple danced under the stage lights. When the music finally ebbed, the applause was deafening.

While the musicians returned to more sedate _pasodobles_ and foxtrots, two members of the chorus buttonholed Christine and kept her enslaved in their gossip until nearly all the revelers had left.

"Where have all the good men gone? I want to tango again!" Marga proclaimed, yawning, and Christine laughed. The violinists, pianist, and accordion player were still playing, their efforts greased by some last-minute brandy – but nobody else remained but Marga and Christine. The pianist smiled at Marga and launched into the introductory bars of another Gardel tango, "El dia que me quieras."

"Come on! You remember how to tango, don't you?" Marga seized Christine by the hand.

Christine laughed. "That was a long time ago!"

"Look, I'll lead. Remember, it's backward with your right, backward with your left...that's it! You remember!"

Christine beamed like a child, awkward as her steps were. She had never been a very good dancer. "I never thought I'd have the honor of dancing with you, ever, my dear prima ballerina, my favorite friend and dancer of all time, my dear sister..."

"Would you permit me, please?" His voice was liquid velvet, but Marga jumped as if scorched, then backed away smoothly as Erik took her place.

"Marga – !" Christine craned her neck to see where her friend had gone, even as Erik gripped her right hand in his. His other hand merely rested other hand at the small of her back, but it seemed to burn her with its touch. She gazed unwillingly into eyes that blazed with the heat of wrath – and something else.

 _La noche que me quieras / Desde el azul del cielo, / Las estrellas celosas / Nos mirarán pasar..._

The words of cosmic love and desire burned as Erik's legs brushed hers, and Christine felt herself melt under his smooth guidance. She mirrored his movements perfectly, much to her delight and dismay.

This was violence. This was the closest that Erik would ever come to brute violence with Christine, and as he willed her into sublime grace, she could feel every innuendo of his every gesture. Now the music surrounded them, enclosed them, instead of coming from within them to share freely. Now the trembling notes of the violin soared over them like a lasso, pulling them together. She knew that he felt it, too – knew it, felt it, exploited it against her. He mimicked a graceful lover's physical triumph over the will of his reticent partner with a quick movement of his legs, pivoting her around and beneath him. They finished in a _corte_ position, Erik looming over her, her back arched as her torso barely touched his. His masked face nearly touched hers and he watched her for a long moment as she struggled to regain her breath, her lips parted. She felt like a wounded animal in the hands of its hunter. Regaining her senses, Christine noticed that part of a stage curtain hid them from the musicians. The pianist began to play a milonga, and she became aware of Marga's voice in playful conversation with the violinists.

"Excuse me," she said, trying to salvage whatever was left of her dignity. She moved until she stood upright, but Erik's grip on her did not loosen. Her eyes swept the floor, checking for trapdoors.

"No, I have no plans to abduct you, Christine," he said, his tones mocking her. "In the end, you will make the choice to come with me willingly," he said, his voice softening. She felt a slight tremor in his arms just before he released her. They stood, facing each other.

"If you had read my letters, you would know that I never met your father, Christine, and I had nothing to do with his death. Had I known...I would have moved heaven and earth to save him."

"And others _like_ him? You...you _interrogated_ people, Erik. I know. Your furniture, your art, everything down to _the sheets on my bed_...that's all the blood of innocent people, isn't it? And those gold bars, too..." Her tones were flat with subdued grief.

"Little innocent! Do you think I caused as much sorrow as someone clumsier than I might have? Believe me, I am more efficient than others in my profession. And I have told you, Christine...I have switched sides. For _you_! Whether you accept it or not, I am _your_ mercenary, _your_ murderer, _your_ agent, and I am far from finished. What do you think I have been doing these past months? I've forged a reputation for usefulness that will form the foundation of a rich new life for us both, together."

His hands gripped her shoulders now and his eyes bored down into hers, searching desperately...for what? For whatever effect he hoped his words might have?

"I never _wanted_ you to kill for me! I never wanted it!" she protested.

"You preferred to die instead? No! I would never permit that! And you forget that there is a necessary corollary to my being _yours_ , my dear – you, by right, are _mine_!" His eyes narrowed, and his teeth were bared in an implicit threat.

"You're capable of killing me, aren't you?" Christine spat.

He recoiled. "No. Not you. _Never_ you," he replied, "but there is, perhaps, _another_ whose life you might care to protect." His voice was filled with contempt. "Tell me, my dear: Does he know whose ring you're really wearing?"

She broke away, backing gradually to put distance between them. "I'm leaving now. I...I have to rest before more rehearsal tomorrow."

"Yes. Turandot. You're doing an admirable job with the role, though you would truly excel under my tutelage. As always, that is _your_ choice. Yet know this, Christine: There will be an American in the audience on opening night, one with influence in the New York opera world. I always expect you to be at your best, but it will be especially important that evening. No exposure to cigarette smoke before going onstage...and positively no _running away._ Understood? Farewell for tonight, then. Get some rest. I shall be collecting you soon."

He vanished into the shadows. After a moment's hesitation, Christine turned on her heel and strode past the group of musicians. Marga broke away from them and caught up with her.

"That was him? _That_ was your lover? Just one look from him, and I felt terror, Christine...are you well?"

Christine paused to look at Marga. The worry in her friend's eyes was genuine. There was nothing she could do to help the situation, and they both knew it, but the knowledge that she had one true friend in her bombed-out life warmed Christine.

She smiled. "Don't worry, Marga. I'll be fine. You'll see."

They departed the theater together in silence.


	24. Chapter 24

_The Germans who are of an age to enter combat are at the fronts, a circumstance that has produced many vacancies in the fields and factories. The German government is offering work to Spanish producers. Many people feel encouraged to accept. Germany is a country at war, but the fronts are far away. There is no danger. The Spanish-German labor agreement contemplates sending 100,000 Spanish workers, an ambitious figure that cruel reality will reduce to 4,200._

 _– Juan Eslava Galán,_ Los años del miedo

Before another week had passed, Raoul's impatience won out over his efforts to compromise with Christine. He now demanded that they leave for France after opening night.

"You'll have sung your role, and it should be enough for you, Christine. This war, what happens to people, is a matter of life or death, and it's the epitome of self-indulgence for us to have even waited this long. I need to get back to my men."

Christine exhaled. "Fair enough...we'll leave after opening night, then."

Thoughts of Erik and what he might possibly do to stop her flitted through Christine's mind. She was relieved that Raoul did not demand a date that was earlier than opening night. Erik was busy these days, and he likely thought that she would not dare leave after his warning to her. He might be caught off guard, especially if she left in the middle of her performance schedule. There were other things to consider, though.

"If we're to travel, Raoul, we'll need a letter of safe conduct on _Dirección General de Seguridad_ stationery...guaranteeing that we're members of the Glorious National Movement," Christine noted wryly.

"Do you think I was born yesterday, Christine? How do you think I managed to travel from France to Barcelona in the first place? I've already got a counterfeit letter for us to use to return to France together...all I need to do is type in the date properly..."

He disappeared into his bedroom and came back with the letter, which he handed to Christine. The photo of her was an old one, but passable, and the seals and letterhead appeared genuine.

"I'm to be the señora Maria de la Paz Ruiz Giner? Do I look like someone with that name?" she asked Raoul.

"You _sound_ like someone with that name, and that's what's important. There are plenty of blonde Catalonians." He smiled. "You'll see. It'll work. We'll take the metro to the Estacion de Francia as if we were any other couple traveling north, and we'll go by train the rest of the way to the Pyrenees."

"I see," commented Christine, but she felt the echo of an old fear at the base of her stomach.

"What's wrong? You've gone white, Christine." Raoul's hand brushed a tendril of hair from her forehead, and she knew he had noticed the sheen of cold sweat there.

"I'm sorry, Raoul. It's just that I haven't taken the metro since the bombings during the war. You remember how the metro stations were used as bomb shelters during the raids? You weren't here, of course, but Mamá and I got caught near the Plaza de la Universitat when some Italian planes started coming. Mamá was already somewhat sick, so we couldn't move very fast. We ended up going down into the Universitat station and waiting out the raid with a lot of other people who sought shelter. This was when the attacks were at their worst, and the noise went on for hours. We were given blankets, but nobody slept, especially not Mamá. For some reason, she started to vomit. She had nothing on her stomach, but she just vomited blood and bile. I thought she was going to die. All I could do was give her water and listen to the pounding and sirens above. After some hours, when things had quieted down, somebody from the committee came and told me they'd bring a stretcher. That took another hour, though, because every resource was being used to transport the injured up above ground. When some men finally came down with the stretcher, it was covered with a dark stain. It was fresh blood, Raoul! I could smell it...the thing was soaked with it. One of the men seemed to notice it, and he threw a blanket over it before they moved Mamá onto it. Then when we finally made it up to the surface, there was so much that had been destroyed! There was screaming and people searching through rubble, and...well, I haven't used the metro since, Raoul. Somehow I can't."

Raoul held her, his hands rubbing her back. "You have to be strong, Christine! I know that must have been hard for you, as you've been sheltered from the worst of things, but I've seen such scenes routinely. I've had greater responsibilities than one old lady, and I can tell you that it is much worse to see a brave young man in the prime of his life blown to bits. But we have to soldier on, my love – for the good of everyone. We can't just think of ourselves all the time."

 _"One old lady."_ Christine blocked the pain that rose up within her, but she felt a sting of resentment against Raoul and all that he did not know. She knew she wasn't being fair to him. Yet his shirt was impregnated with the odor of nicotine, as usual, and she moved slowly out of his embrace.

"Don't worry about me," she said. "I'll take the metro to the Estacion de Francia with you, and I will be as cool as you could ever wish."

"If you're sure," Raoul said dubiously. He scrutinized her, then smiled almost boyishly. "You know, I could come with you to your bed. Maybe what you need for your troubles is for someone to hold you."

Christine leveled a glare at him and turned before he could see the disgust that she was feeling. It was troubling to her that her old affection for Raoul had failed to rekindle. They had their entire lives together looming ahead of them. She had what she had always wanted. Why, then, was everything about her future colored an ashen gray whenever she stopped to think of it?

Alone in her bed that night, Christine wrestled against the onslaught of memories – of Erik's arms, of their easy conversation, of their music together. She screamed into her pillow in frustration at her own weakness. What had happened to her? She had thought herself hardened, disciplined, in control of herself and her feelings. This was no time for self-indulgence. Perhaps the New Spain did not recognize the marriage vows she had made to Raoul, but she had made them, and she would be a good wife. She resolved to suppress all thoughts of her time with Erik. There was no love there, and there never had been. He was a collector of baubles, and she was just another possession. His pride would not permit him to let her go without a fight – that was all.

* * *

For the rest of the week, Christine felt feverish with anticipated nostalgia for Barcelona. Her hungry gaze rested on every scene, on the wide avenues and the chamfered street corners, on every doorway and every facade as she walked through her beloved Eixample District; she noted how the light of the blue October sky played through the leaves of the sycamores lining the streets. She walked the Ramblas and contemplated the figure of Columbus pointing towards the sea, but she pushed away all thoughts of the Americas he inspired. Her future was to be in France, whatever might happen.

Rehearsals for "Turandot" as well as her weekly concert at the Victoria gave Christine little time to reflect on any losses, past or future. She immersed herself in her role as the ice queen Turandot, much to the delight of her director. Erik's lessons were so engraved in her memory that applying his rules to her singing had become instinctive. "Sublime" was the word Gonzalo Fernández applied to Christine's voice now, and even the managers, who had always preferred the business side of the opera to the artistic side, now sat in on every rehearsal.

The only trouble was, as usual, with Christine's skills as an actress. She was excellent as the unredeemed Princess Turandot, impassive and implacable. It was Turandot's redemption itself, her discovery of true love, that failed to be convincing.

"You look as if you have a stomachache, darling," the musical director sighed, "not as if you've discovered the redeeming light of love."

"Be careful, or I'll cut _your_ head off, too," snapped Christine. She had spent long hours repeating the final scene, and she was tired.

"You have the blood-thirsty ice princess part down pat, at least."

A slight rumble resonated backstage, and everyone glanced nervously at the Bengal tiger that was being escorted away. One of Joan Pursals' more exotic touches to the production had been the idea of having a real tiger positioned to Princess Turandot's immediate right during one of the scenes. Many of the technicians resented the animal because of the smell and mess its presence meant. It was also rumored that the tiger ate enough meat per day to feed a family for a week.

* * *

Christine was up before dawn the next day, the day she would fly. She paced her bedroom for half an hour in the darkness. Everything was clean, organized but not too organized. She and Raoul would take a minimal amount of luggage with them in a carpetbag.

Opening the doors to the balcony, she watched as the stars faded, until people and traffic appeared on the street below. Finally, she made coffee and readied herself for dress rehearsal that morning.

Raoul emerged from his bedroom freshly shaven in trousers and undershirt, and she stopped on her way out the door and forced a smile.

"Well, opening night tonight! I'll see you outside the theater later," she said with a cheerfulness she did not feel, and she shut the door with a finality that was terrifying.

* * *

"Blood red. Perfect," murmured the makeup artist as she surveyed the work she had done on Christine's lips.

In the mirror, Christine saw the ice queen Turandot in all her oriental splendor. The blood red lips parted as she gazed at herself from the elaborate headdress and black wig to the silk slippers. Her painted black eyebrows swept upward, and her eyes were rimmed with kohl. She bowed carefully, mindful of her crown, as the artist left the room to join the flow of people in the busy corridor. Beyond the dull roar of voices, she could hear the cacophony of the orchestra warming up. She breathed deeply and closed her eyes, gathering strength. This would be her final triumph. This would be _Erik's_ final triumph.

The door flew open with a thump and Christine turned to scold whoever had entered for failing to knock, but the words died on her lips as she saw who had entered. It was Paqui, followed closely by Carlotta Caracciolo. Behind them, the managers hovered indecisively in the doorway.

 _Carlotta_! Carlotta was the one who drew Christine's attention. She was dressed and made up for the role of Turandot exactly as Christine was, although the overall effect was different. The heavy blue robes of the costume, designed for a slender woman, draped Carlotta's larger figure in an unflattering way. She looked ponderous, flushed, triumphant in her grinning ugliness.

Not a foot separated Carlotta from Christine, and for a long, surreal moment, the two Turandots faced each other like a burlesque of a reflection.

"Did you miss me? Well, don't worry. You needn't bother taking the stage, little whore," Carlotta finally hissed. Her black eyes narrowed, and she seemed to reach back for something with her right arm. Christine realized, too late, that Carlotta was about to slap her. The blow left her staggering backwards, and she felt herself pulled in yet another direction by Paqui, who dealt her a slap of her own. The headdress tilted sideways and slid off. Her cheek burned where Carlotta had hit her, and she could feel warm blood seep through a cut near her left eye. She glanced at the woman's diamond rings, her ears still ringing from the force of Paqui's assault. Vaguely, over the shimmering noise, she could hear the managers' dismayed protests.

Carlotta advanced. "So, you thought the great Carlotta would pay for your murder of her Gianni, did you? You thought you would take her place in Puccini's opera? That is why you had me framed!"

Christine straightened and faced Carlotta, squaring her shoulders. "I did _not_ kill your husband! I thought we had been through this already, but I'll add one thing: the poisoned aguardiente that you and your dear husband concocted worked very well. You killed my Mamá with it!" Out of the corner of her eye, Christine noticed that Paqui had frozen in place, her eyes fixed on Carlotta. She forced her attention onto the diva, though. "Maybe you shouldn't pay for your husband's death, but you should pay for Mamá's death. She drank that poison of yours..."

"Shut up! It's almost time for me to go on!" Carlotta snarled.

The overture was beginning, and Christine looked at the managers. The shame and fear on their faces told her everything she needed to know.

"Our dear managers are such little _mariquitas_ , aren't they? Perhaps Captain Fernández turned a blind eye to their indecency, but my dear friend _Comandante_ Oscuro will be very receptive to my concerns...should I choose to air them to him." Carlotta turned to smile maliciously at Soler and Junyent, who looked down at the floor, defeated. Christine wondered whether the woman had slapped them, too.

"You can't be serious about going onstage! You haven't rehearsed with us!" Christine snapped.

"Oh, but I've been watching from the wings the entire time. I can be as discreet as you, sneaking around with that Red of a husband of yours. I know all about him. Your little friend Paqui here has told me everything. And Comandante Oscuro will know about him and who he is, too, unless you do exactly what I tell you to do from now on, little slut! And I'm telling you now – you stay away from my stage. You stay here and sit in that chair, or you go home, but take off _my_ costume and stay off of _my_ stage. Do you understand me? Now it's time for me – _La Carlotta_ – to go on!"

Raoul had not been discreet enough to escape Paqui's observation. Christine slumped into her chair and stared into the mirror. A drop of blood trickled down her swollen left cheek, ruining her makeup. Beyond her own reflected image, her gaze went to Carlotta's, traveling from her sharp nails to her toothy grin. She watched, mute, as the woman eagerly left the room, hurrying towards the stage. For once, Paqui had nothing to say to Christine, drifting sullenly out after Carlotta instead. The door closed, and there was silence.

The notes of Puccini's opera vibrated through the dressing-room door. The Prince of Persia met his fate, and Christine remained frozen, seated at her dressing table, staring at her image in the mirror. The room was warm, but she felt a chill down to her soul. She had wanted to sing this role, but until now she had not realized how very badly she had longed for it. Perhaps Erik had known this, but she had not.

Erik had been banished from her thoughts, and for good reason. The thought of him was an icy dagger to her heart. Where was he? Christine had dedicated this role to him, intended for this opera to be her goodbye to him. The last thing she had expected was for him to have abandoned her entirely, but if Carlotta was taking the stage in her place, that was clearly what had happened. Erik would never have permitted such a thing to happen.

She began to remove her makeup, her movements swift and automatic, and the only thing she felt, besides her heartbeat, was a slight tremor in her fingertips.

 _It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter..._ Her thoughts drifted heavily around that mantra, and she willed them away. Onstage, the Prince gave the answer to Turandot's first riddle: _Hope!_

Christine finally willed her thoughts into their usual discipline. She rose, went through the mechanical motions of changing back into her street clothes, and thought. Without Paqui monitoring her movements, she could return to her home before the opera ended, and she and Raoul could leave early. With Erik absent, they could leave without ducking into alleyways or taking separate taxis. From the stage, she could hear the Prince give the answer to Turandot's second riddle: _Blood!_

Christine put her hat and gloves on, and picked up a paper bag. Within, there was a chunk of veal she had intended to give to the tiger onstage. She had made friends with the animal over time by giving him such tidbits, and treating him onstage was sure to have been an audience-pleaser. Now she would prepare the meat for Raoul and herself, a final meal before their journey. She slipped out of her dressing room, unafraid to travel its halls alone now. Onstage, the Prince answered Turandot's third and final riddle: _Turandot!_

* * *

"Raoul?"

Christine entered her flat, but it was in complete darkness. Had he already left to meet her at the theater? She turned the light on and saw that the carpetbag was on the floor. Perhaps he had gone out to run some errand before leaving.

She went into the kitchen and placed the meat on the counter. Pulling out a frying pan, she heated some oil and started to work at some potatoes with the paring knife, the rinds falling into the trash bin in graceful spirals. When she had cut them into fries and they were sizzling in the oil, she gathered knives and forks and turned to set the kitchen table. That was when she noticed the envelope.

Picking it up off the table, Christine turned it over. The front was blank, but a blood-red wax fleur-de-lis sealed the envelope at the back. Fighting the trembling in her fingers, she ripped it open. A lock of hair fell out, and her heart sank. It was unmistakably Raoul's.

TAKE THE LAST FUNICULAR

COME TO ME

AT TIBIDABO

HE MAY LIVE

IF YOU REFLECT


	25. Chapter 25

**Many thanks to all who have been so kind as to leave feedback! Please know that I'm very grateful.**

 **We're getting to the part of this narrative where things really hit the fan. :)**

* * *

 _Every lover is mad, we are told. But can we imagine a madman in love?_

 _–_ _Roland Barthes, "A Lover's Discourse"_

The station at the Plaza del Doctor Andreu was empty, and as the last funicular train started its steep ascent through the darkness to the Tibidabo mountain, Christine examined the pocketknife in her hands. She had ransacked the flat looking for anything, any kind of weapon she could use against Erik, and she had found an old pocketknife of Raoul's in his bedside table. The bone on the handle was coming off, what little remained of it hanging precariously from a screw. Yet Raoul had kept the hardware within oiled and sharpened, and that was all that mattered. Shaking her head, Christine despaired. What madness was it to try to confront Erik with a mere pocketknife? Perhaps she would succeed in surprising him, at most. Still, having it in her hands gave her comfort as the dark forms of pine trees slipped past the windows of the train.

Erik had chosen the amusement park on Tibidabo mountain as the stage for his blackmail. She knew him well enough to ponder the meaning of that.

 _"Haec omnia_ _ **tibi dabo**_ _si cadens adoraberis me."_

 _"All this I will give to you," the Devil said to Jesus, showing him the earthly panorama from the mountain's height, "if you kneel down and worship me."_

Thus the highest mountain in the Collserola range had been named using the Devil's own tempting words to Jesus. The irony of his calling her to the amusement park at its summit was typical of Erik.

Finally, the car pulled into the station at Tibidabo. Christine surveyed the empty car as she rose to her feet, secreting the pocketknife into her skirt pocket. As she moved towards the exit, the driver, who had been mute during the entire trip, turned towards her.

"The place is closed, señora, but you will be permitted to enter. Mind your step."

"Wait!" Christine cried, but he pulled the door firmly closed and pointedly turned his back to her.

She stared at him for a few seconds, then turned and moved slowly out of the station. An October crescent moon shone over the plaza at the entrance to the amusement park. Although she could see a few lights illuminating the park, it was empty of people. She had never seen the park so abandoned, and as the wind whipped through her hair, loosening her bun, she shuddered and adjusted her hat. Against the stars, she could see the forms of the Ferris wheel and rollercoaster that dominated the Tibidabo park. Reigning high over the amusement park, at the very peak of the mountain, was the massive Church of the Sagrado Corazon, as yet unfinished. Christine's eyes swept over the walled fortress that surrounded its crypt, which was flanked on either side by a monumental double stairway. Above the crypt, the church itself, made of paler stone, rose up in Gothic splendor and ended abruptly, just below where a central tower and surrounding turrets would someday be. The archangel Michael presided from its high arches, ready to do battle against Satan. The wind stirred once more and the pine trees whispered softly, then more loudly. Christine turned to survey the panorama below Tibidabo. On the black velvet expanse spread out below the mountain, Barcelona's jeweled webs of lights shimmered up at her, interrupting the darkness that stretched out to the sea beyond.

Christine squared her shoulders and turned resolutely towards the park. Her heels clicked dully against the pavement as she approached the entry gates, and she quickly located one that was standing ajar. Her shoes were loose on her feet, selected by her especially for that reason. If worst came to worst, she could kick off her shoes to run – not that she expected to get very far.

 _IF YOU REFLECT..._

As she entered the park, she paused to look towards the right, scrutinizing the attractions and buildings until she had located the one she wanted. There it stood: the Hall of Mirrors. She wondered whether Erik was holding Raoul there, or whether he had him secured somewhere else. Had he killed him already? That fear made her heart skip a beat, but somehow she knew that Raoul was alive. She prayed he was unharmed.

The ornate door to the Hall of Mirrors was also conspicuously ajar, but Christine paused before entering, the hairs at the nape of her neck rising. The darkness within the building was complete. She was entering into combat against a man who could see easily in the dark, whose capacity for violence was unspeakable, and whose intelligence was unmatched – and she was doing it on his terms entirely. She released a tremulous breath and stepped into the hall, her arms outstretched so that she could feel her way into...where?

The door slammed shut behind her.

"Erik?" she breathed, struggling to control the fear in her voice.

A gust of air brushed past her. "Ah, you have finally come to visit your poor Erik in his solitude! So kind of you. Please approach, my dear." His voice was cold, smooth, beautiful. Christine could hear the anger within its deceptive cadences.

A beam of light snapped on, illuminating a hallway, and little more. There was no sign what it led to, as the light faded into blackness after several yards. The walls were black, and Christine could barely discern the floor. She hesitated.

"I can't see well, Erik. I can't..." Her throat was dry. "Where are you?"

"Approach."

She felt the limits of his patience in his voice and forced her feet to move. As she moved down the dark hallway, she fought panic. Complete darkness surrounded her at the end of it, and she felt the brush of curtains as she entered a doorway...to what?

A light blinked on, and Christine suppressed a yelp. She was now staring at her own image, but there was an unearthly quality to it, and she realized that it was because her reflection was suspended in a bottomless well of darkness. Looking up, she saw nothing but blackness as well. All that existed was her own reflection in the dark void, and herself. Even her own body seemed to be floating. There was no ceiling above her, no floor beneath her feet, only the vacuum of a space that was terrifying and infinite.

Her reflection moved suddenly, retreating backwards at dizzying speed to disappear into blackness entirely.

Christine found her voice. "Erik...you told me to come, and I've come. Please...I don't want to play this game of yours, whatever it is."

There was the sudden metallic clack of a mechanism as it ground into motion, and the dim light that had illuminated Christine gave way to complete darkness.

"Indeed? It is I who do not wish to play _your_ games, Christine."

Her image appeared once more, but it was off center. To its right, another tiny image approached, hurtling forward rapidly, and Erik was suddenly standing beside her reflection but looking down at the real Christine. He was dressed for evening, the starched whiteness of his cravat stark against the darkness of his suit and cloak. He was wearing his black mask, and the fire that always lit his gaze fairly blazed in these shadowy surroundings. Erik's specter regarded her for several seconds before the two ghostly reflections began to slide together, uniting into one solid image that was half Erik and half her. Soon, the two reflections were superimposed upon each other. Christine stared. They appeared to be locked into a sublime embrace, but his fiery eyes never left hers as her mirror image became fused into his.

She forced herself to breathe. "What have you done with Raoul?"

Her own reflection disappeared, and Erik alone regarded her silently. He gestured casually to the left, and Christine gasped. Raoul was floating at her side, pale as death, a hangman's noose about his neck. The rope did not seem taut, but his feet were relaxed, toes downward, as though he were indeed being hanged.

"You've killed him! Raoul!"

Christine leaped towards Raoul, intent on removing the rope, but she hit the flat surface of the mirror with a slap. Sobbing, she sank to her knees, onto the dark surface of whatever mysterious floor was supporting her.

"How could you?" She looked up at Erik, who was viewing her from on high with seeming detachment.

"How _could_ I? But I did _not_ , my dear! Always thinking the worst of me, aren't you?"

As if on cue, Raoul opened his eyes and looked wildly around. He worked frantically at the noose with his hands, but Christine could tell his efforts to free himself would be futile.

"Raoul! I'm here!" She could give him hope, at least.

"Christine!" He had heard her, but suddenly the rope at his neck became taut, and Christine watched in horror as his paleness turned to purple.

"Erik! Please!" Still on her knees, she continued to watch Raoul.

In answer to her cries, the images of Raoul multiplied and revolved around them; at first, there were four reflections, but soon there were sixteen. Only Erik's regal presence remained steady, continuing to look down at Christine as Raoul circled them, writhing and choking.

"Please, Erik!"

"No. Not without a promise from you – you, who are so good at keeping promises," Erik's voice taunted smoothly.

The images of Raoul had stopped spinning around them, and all but one of them faded out. Christine looked at him carefully and noted that he had stopped struggling.

"What promise do you want, Erik?" Her voice was dull, resigned.

"I think you know."

"I'll do anything. Anything."

Beside them, Raoul's reflected image relaxed and took in great gulps of air. The rope was slack now. The reflection faded and disappeared.

"That wasn't so difficult, was it?"

Christine looked up. Erik hovered over her like a shadow for a minute before bending to pull her to a standing position. His hands lingered on her upper arms. Something lunatic flickered in the heated depths of his eyes, but Christine stood her ground.

"What will it be, then, Erik?" she wondered tiredly. The sleepless night, the ordeal at the Victoria, and now _this_...all were taking their toll on her.

Her question went unanswered. Instead, Erik scrutinized her silently, his hands still on her arms.

"You are exhausted, my dear. What on earth happened to your face?" His long fingers grasped her chin, moving her head to the side so that he could examine her injury. This he did with the gentle solicitude of a man who had never strangled someone to death in his life.

"A mishap in my dressing room," Christine explained. "I see the makeup I used didn't hide it very well. Erik, are you going to release Raoul?"

"All in good time. How went 'Turandot,' dearest? How many ovations did you receive? I should be garroted for not having attended, but Erik has been a busy man lately!" The lunacy in his glowing eyes reappeared briefly.

"The opera went well," she lied. "Erik, please at least make certain Raoul is well...he needs a doctor."

Erik scoffed. "What's a rope burn to our battle-scarred hero? His pride would be offended if we were to treat him with such tender indulgence!"

"You _will_ let him go, won't you?"

"As soon as you honor _your_ word, I shall honor mine."

"Erik, I'm _married_ to Raoul," Christine attempted, but she knew what Erik's answer would be.

"You know perfectly well that your so-called marriage was null _ab initio."_ He waved a gloved hand in casual dismissal and began to circle her.

A flicker of panic pierced Christine's fatigue. Erik had won; they both knew he had won, but he was far from satisfied. She sensed a danger in his demeanor, a recklessness that was the fruit of whatever discomfort affected his mind. The best she could do, she decided, was to stand perfectly still and not betray her anxiety by turning to look at him. She felt his presence behind her as the prey senses its predator.

"You want me to go to New York with you? You understand that I had other plans," she said, keeping her voice calm.

"They were never _your_ plans, were they, Christine? He would have you live in hiding at his brother's estate. The comte de Chagny supports the Vichy government rather loudly. He's with the _Action française_ movement, you understand, and always has been. He's nobility, he is a monarchist! How long do you think it would take him to hand you over to the Nazis?"

"He would never do that to Raoul!" Christine exclaimed, but her tone lacked conviction. She had entertained the very same doubts that Erik was naming. "I'm nothing but an opera singer to the Nazis, anyway. They're not looking for _me._ I could pose as a servant...what's another Spanish refugee to the Vichy government?"

He was suddenly directly before her, grasping her arms as his eyes blazed into hers. "Little fool! The _comte_ blames _you_ for his brother's unfortunate political leanings and will not scruple to have you arrested as a Red. Why do you think he is so eager to welcome you to the family? A successful opera singer who has left Spain under suspicious circumstances, ending up on his estate disguised as a servant...oh, the Nazis would be all too happy to interrogate you and hand you back to the Spanish regime. The _comte_ would be more than happy to assist them. With a brother like his, he is eager to prove his loyalty to Vichy, and this would be the perfect means."

Christine remained silent. Erik's logic was impeccable, and she recognized that he only spoke the truth. He continued to pace around her, circling silently in the gloom.

"You do not love him and have not truly loved him for a long time, if you ever did," Erik continued from off to her side. "You will forget him. He would place you in danger, something that I will never permit him to do."

"I've already agreed to whatever you want, Erik," Christine sighed.

He was out of her line of vision again. Where was he? Behind her?

" _Whatever I want_ , Christine? I want you to know yourself for once, rather than avoiding the truth about what I am to you and what you are to me. You, my dear, are a coward – oh, not the kind that runs from physical danger! It would be much better for us both if you weren't so daring in that regard...but no, you are a coward when it comes to the truth. You insist to yourself that you're honoring that sham of a marriage of yours, yet you come to my bed easily enough, don't you? You abandoned all others when you gave yourself to _me_. I, in turn, have taken you, protected you, and placed you above all others. No cause will ever be as dear to me as you are."

Silence descended. Christine waited, her heart pounding in her ears.

"I think we have danced this little dance of ours long enough, don't you, my dear? It's time you accepted your fate." His voice was low, nearly a whisper, and she felt his hot breath on the back of her neck, raising gooseflesh.

The darkness yielded to a white light that suddenly seemed to focus on Christine from all directions. Her own image, repeated several times to form a circle around her, shone upon her from all directions like stage lights. She blinked and squinted. This vision of herself was resplendent in its white wedding dress.

"I think the time has come for that promise you owe me, Christine."


	26. Chapter 26

_There can be love without jealousy, but not without fears._

 _– Cervantes,_ Don Quixote

The dark wind howled around the Church of the Sagrado Corazon as Erik ushered Christine into its crypt, his grip firm about her waist. The vaulted ceilings and alabaster columns were dimly illuminated, but Christine scarcely noticed them. She was vaguely aware of the dark Christ that agonized on his cross in one chapel alcove, and the Virgin in another. Her eyes focused on the painted cupula above the main altar, where the archangel Michael, protector of transient souls, reigned over the other angels. Then, lowering her eyes, she saw Father Efrén.

"Christine?" The priest looked from her to Erik, and understanding dawned in his eyes.

Father Efrén turned to Erik. "If I had known that I would be performing the Sacrament of Holy Matrimony, I would have worn my vestments. I must say that this is a relief. I had feared that my debt to you might involve Last Rites."

"Not at all, Father. This is a happy occasion! You understand why we would require discretion, of course," Erik said smoothly, still keeping Christine anchored by the waist.

The priest's eyes turned towards Christine, who smiled weakly. "You look wan, Christine. I hope you are a happy bride?"

Don Efrén smiled at Christine with something approaching complicity. He had heard her conflicted feelings regarding Erik during confession, and he clearly thought she had resolved them.

"Still, this is a bit complicated and unorthodox, Erik. No banns, no witnesses..."

"You needn't fear, Father. I shall remedy all _that._ You know I have the means at my disposal," Erik asserted with an air of impatience.

The priest's smile broadened. "I don't doubt your abilities in the least. Not after the way you managed to release my prisoners...I can never adequately repay you for that, Erik, but -"

"You are about to satisfy your debt in full," Erik interrupted. "Shall we begin?"

 _Shall we begin?_ Christine was exhausted, but Erik's easy assurance awakened one last redoubt of rebellion within her.

"I need confession, Father," she interjected.

Both men stared at her, Don Efrén in surprise, and Erik with the brooding light of suspicion in his eyes. She smiled sweetly.

"I'm sure Erik has been shriven, but I haven't been to confession in months, Father."

The priest looked warily at Erik, who nodded his consent. That exchange only served to irritate Christine further, but she had had long practice at holding her tongue, and she moved to the nearest confessional in silence. The booth's solid wooden construction reassured her that it would be virtually soundproof. She smiled. That in itself would provoke Erik.

* * *

There was movement on the other side of the screen, and Father Efrén's voice issued forth.

"You may begin, Christine."

" _Ave María Purísima,"_ she intoned.

The sacrament proceeded formally at first, with Christine's vague cataloging of impure thoughts and other paltry misdeeds. The priest prescribed several Hail Marys as quick penance and was about to leave the confessional, but Christine stopped him.

"Father, you disapproved of Erik, and you were worried about my relationship with him. Now you seem quite happy to see us getting married. Would you mind telling me what's changed?"

On the other side of the screen, the priest hesitated. Christine could sense him weighing whatever words he was about to say.

"Erik has changed, and you have been the one who has changed him," Don Efrén finally said. "In my line of work, child, one can't give a soul up for lost, ever. I know that, especially now. I admit that I had thought Erik to be beyond redemption, but I was wrong. I am so happy to have been wrong, Christine! I am so pleased to see you two reconciled. You have served as a catalyst for good in his life. He is not the murderous, cynical man he once was, but is capable of great good. Haven't you noticed how he now avoids using violence unless strictly necessary?"

Christine thought of Raoul, imprisoned somewhere in the Hall of Mirrors. "I suppose the change in him has been...subtle," she finally said.

Yet deep in her heart she knew with uncomfortable certainty that she did have the power to restrain Erik. He had held back before for her sake.

* * *

As she knelt before the altar with Erik, Christine barely paid attention to Father Efrén's words as he shepherded them through the sacrament of matrimony. She could feel Erik beside her, sense that he was reverberating with some strong emotion, but she did her best not to look at him. When prompted, she answered, " _Sí, quiero_ ," sealing her fate, but perhaps it had been sealed long ago – perhaps even before she had met Erik.

Father Efrén pronounced them husband and wife, and Erik rose, pulling Christine up from the kneeler, his arm firmly about her.

"Christine," he whispered, enfolding her in a tight embrace.

Was she the one trembling or was he?

* * *

As Christine sat in a pew, she stared up at the archangel Michael, who stood poised to fly, wings outspread, from his place in the cupula.

"Why shouldn't _you_ leave now, too?" she whispered up at the figure as she buried her face in her hands.

Don Efrén had gone, glowing with happiness for the couple he had just married. Erik had gone to retrieve Raoul, faithful to his promise to release him. Christine was alone with her thoughts.

The wind that had been buffeting the stones of the church outside now entered the crypt, cool against Christine's skin. She looked up at the cupula again, only mildly surprised to see Michael fly from his place there to light squarely in front of her. The archangel was battle-scarred from head to toe, and he held a sword whose flames matched his eyes, terrible in their fiery intensity.

"Christine!" his mighty voice thundered, echoing through the church.

She blinked and looked up from her recumbent position in the pew. Erik's eyes glowed down upon her from the darkness of his black half-mask. Even the unblemished side of his face was indistinct in the gloom. Christine felt a twinge of fear at how little she really knew Erik, could ever hope to truly know a man such as he. She roused herself, pushing to a sitting position and adjusting her hat.

"What... _sleeping_?" Raoul's voice rose an octave at the last word in its incredulity. "How could you sleep at a time like this?"

 _Good. His vocal cords are undamaged_ , Christine thought, and she rose to her feet to look beyond Erik to where Raoul sat, his hands tied behind his back. His eyes were bloodshot and he was disheveled, but he did not appear to have been harmed permanently by his ordeal at Erik's hands.

"I'm glad you're well, Raoul," Christine said. She could feel the waves of tension emanating from Erik's direction, and she added, "It's time to say goodbye, I'm afraid."

" _Goodbye?_ Hell! You'll see how this isn't goodbye!" Raoul spat.

Erik, who had been looming darkly beside Christine, erupted into a rapid deluge of French. The tirade, directed entirely at Raoul, lasted for several minutes and terminated in a quick but eloquent gesture - a finger-slice across the throat. The threat at the end was the only part that Christine understood.

"You know I don't understand French, Erik," Christine complained.

"Good. That was not intended for your ears," he replied in English.

Raoul scowled. English was not one of his languages, and it seemed that Erik knew it.

"I don't care what the hell you try to do to me. I'll be back for Christine sooner or later. You won't have her for long," Raoul said, refusing to abandon Spanish.

"Mind your language, de Chagny. You will not find my wife at all, as you haven't the first idea where I plan to take her. I assure you, we will not be anywhere near _you_." Erik had reverted to Spanish. His tone was cool and detached, and his arms were folded.

"You can't fight us both," Raoul observed. "She loves me...and I love her. She'll escape you."

"Raoul..." Christine began.

"She knows your life is forfeit, wherever you are, if she does that," Erik snapped and turned to Christine. "This fool is abusing my patience. You wished to say goodbye to him, and I have no intention of arguing with the imbecile. We will leave together now, and he will return to France, where he belongs."

" _She doesn't love you!_ " Raoul screamed. His face was scarlet with rage, and he struggled against his bonds.

Erik flinched in a way that was imperceptible to Raoul. Christine saw it, nonetheless, and as she turned to embrace him, she could feel his surprise. She pulled him to her and kissed him deeply, hoping to erase any of the doubts Raoul had placed in his mind. Whatever she did or did not feel for Erik, she was _a catalyst for good in his life._ Don Efrén had made it clear. She knew what her responsibility was.

As she held fast to Erik, she felt him deepening the kiss, his grip on her trembling slightly. Finally, she pulled back to look at him. The fiery eyes behind the mask frightened her in their intensity, and she could hear how he fought to gain control of his breathing. Finally, he calmed, taking deep, steady breaths as he looked at her.

"I promise to be a good wife to you, Erik. Don't listen to Raoul. I won't try to escape you, and I'll go wherever you go. I'll do my very best to make you happy. I promise." Christine's voice trembled.

"Christine, how _could_ you?" Raoul exclaimed, but both Erik and Christine ignored him, lost as they were in each other.

Erik pulled Christine into an embrace, his dark cloak sheathing them both. She felt his heartbeat, more rapid than she remembered it, and held him tightly. Everything had been decided, and she felt a strange peace within herself. No more need to resist. She wished she could bury herself within Erik somehow and forget the world.

Finally, he pulled away from her to hold her at arm's length. He looked down at Christine for a long moment, his eyes inscrutable, their glow dimmed by whatever emotion lived within him now. More time passed. Christine felt in her deepest being that something had shifted and fallen out of place – something was terribly wrong. She was about to speak when Erik uttered the single word that stopped everything.

"No."

" _No_?" Christine repeated.

A cold dawn was creeping through the crypt's windows, offering them weak, gray light. Christine's teeth began to chatter. They would have to leave soon; there would be people.

Erik merely stood as though in a trance, observing her as if she were a million miles distant from him. Finally, he turned to address Raoul.

"You will not go to France with her. You will go to Lisbon and from there take a ship to New York."

Christine and Raoul glanced at each other, stunned, then watched Erik warily as he moved towards his captive and hovered over him. A blade flicked open in his right hand. Christine gasped.

"I have no intention of harming him." Erik's voice was flat with his effort to remain patient...and something else.

The blade flashed, and Raoul's hands were free. The effect was instant: leaping to his feet, he attempted a right uppercut, but Erik easily blocked it.

"Raoul...!" Christine approached the men, a sense of panic invading her. Erik was behaving in a way she had never seen before, and by no means did she think Raoul was safe from him.

"Stand down, you fool!" Erik thundered.

Raoul hesitated, waiting, and Erik turned to Christine and handed her the knife he had just used.

"That's my jack knife!" Raoul observed, turning an angry gaze on Christine. "You gave it to him!"

Patting her empty skirt pocket in disbelief, Christine shook her head.

Erik regarded her steadily, with something like tenderness, before speaking softly in English. "Imagine trying to face _me_ armed only with a pocketknife. You are the only person on this earth capable of doing me injury, but the last thing you need for that purpose is a knife."

From outside, the first muffled sounds of human activity could be heard: the roar of an automobile engine, the sound of metal on metal as a gate was opened in the distance. The three people within the crypt showed no sign of their awareness of it, but the atmosphere had become charged with the need for hurry.

Another minute passed, and Erik continued to stare at Christine with that soft expression that alarmed something deep within her. Then he turned suddenly as if he were wrenching himself away from her and drew a bulky envelope from the depths of his cloak, offering them to Raoul.

Erik reverted to Spanish once more. "You will take Christine to Lisbon, then to New York from there. There are tickets, safe conducts, and everything else you will need for the journey within, including maps. You may need to change a few details, including the names on the documents, but you should not encounter trouble on the way. I've made certain of that. The journey across the peninsula will be done by automobile. You will find it parked near the train station; Christine knows which one it is." Erik handed Raoul the keys.

Disarmed by the complete change in Erik's demeanor, Raoul accepted the keys. "I need to go back to my men. I need to continue the work I've been doing. Without me, they'll be without a leader."

The sudden rigid quality in Erik's posture as he contemplated Raoul showed how unused he was to being contradicted. "You will take Christine to Lisbon, then to New York," he said slowly, as if speaking to an unruly child. "The route through the Pyrenees you were planning to take is too dangerous for Christine, and for her to remain in France is out of the question."

"I have _Maquis_ in those mountains I can trust completely," Raoul argued. "As for France -"

"You know that incompetence kills more people than betrayal, de Chagny. You know that from bitter experience by now. Trustworthy as your _Maquis_ may be, they are amateurs. And I would die before seeing Christine entrusted to your brother."

Raoul vacillated under Erik's raptor gaze. "Very well. I will take Christine to Lisbon. I promise."

The noise level outside the crypt continued to increase as the sun rose higher.

"You will leave with her within the week. And try to be discreet, de Chagny," Erik said, and turned and walked towards the side of the church so swiftly that his cloak billowed behind him.

"Erik!" Christine shook off Raoul's quick grasp and nearly ran in an attempt to follow him.

"Forget about me, Christine. You are free. But one last thing: you are to sing tomorrow at the weekly recital. Look in those papers for the music you will need, and destroy it once you have memorized it. Goodbye, my dear." Erik's voice became silvery with distance as he gradually disappeared.

Christine searched in the gloomy crypt for any sign of her teacher, but he had gone.


	27. Chapter 27

_Women are put into two classes, "decent" and "lost." The decent ones have no libido and observe the strict social norms of their group: they take the sacraments frequently, they dress honestly, they avoid entering cafes alone, they seat themselves modestly, without crossing their legs, and they abhor tobacco and alcoholic beverages. Those who cannot live without alcohol pretend to be without appetite or sick so that they can gain access to wine "tonics" that the pharmacies expend under pious-sounding labels, or to Agua del Carmen [a traditional remedy often called "anti-hysteria water," Agua del Carmen is heavily alcoholic and contains some herbs, mostly flowers of lemon balm]._

 _– Juan Eslava Galán,_ Los años del miedo

The drive down from Tibidabo was quiet, but it was not a peaceful type of quiet. On the passenger side of Erik's car, Christine looked out the window, her back to Raoul. Every now and then she winced as he ground inexpertly into a different gear.

They went down the Avenida del Tibidabo, where the summer mansions of Barcelona's moneyed _haute bourgeoisie_ flanked the street, half-hidden behind wrought-iron garden walls. Jasmine and bougainvillea infused the early morning sunlight with color, and Christine could see the red and pink of geraniums in windowsills. She looked down at her finger, twisting her gold wedding ring. It glinted up at her mockingly.

"So, all this time it was _Erik Deschamps_ ," Raoul's voice, steeped in anger and disbelief, interrupted Christine's trance.

"Heard of him?" Christine murmured, trying to ignore the pain that sliced within her.

"He's the devil incarnate. Of course I've heard of him. He's Gestapo, and he was fatal to the morale of my troops back at the Ebro front. He set a bounty on our Soviet tanks, and the north African mercenaries became very good at ambushing them and killing their drivers. He wanted to back-engineer them, you see; he was good at it. He was also good at _interrogating_ people...he struck terror into men's hearts. And you've been _sleepin_ g with him!"

"He's not with the Gestapo!" _Not anymore. Not really._

Raoul slowed the car to a stop and turned to stare at Christine. In his gaze she saw horror mixed with pity. The engine idled heavily for a few minutes, then stalled completely.

"I can't believe you permitted him to manipulate you so, Christine! I know I shouldn't have left you alone and vulnerable for so long, but I had no idea you were such an innocent. If you hadn't -"

"Whose voice do you think it was you heard all those months ago – who helped you organize your Resistance cell?" Christine interrupted. She felt reckless, but it felt good to let some air out of Raoul's balloon for a change. He had goaded her once too often.

The expression on Raoul's face, however, was one of skepticism. "What you're suggesting is impossible. Erik Deschamps, instrumental to the Resistance movement? That's absurd. Did he tell you that he was helping me? If you believed him, then you're not very bright..."

"Would you like _me_ to drive?" Christine asked. Rage helped her to put off introspection. So would an attempt at driving. Inside, she was in agony. "Seriously, what _are_ you doing with the clutch?"

The car door slammed as Raoul got out and swaggered to her side of the 170V. His smile as he opened her door reflected amusement and contempt, and he invited her to take the wheel with an arrogant sweep of his arm. She hopped out, skirting the car's long front as she moved to the driver's side. Settling into the front seat, she cranked down the window. The cool morning air would cool her heated cheeks. The times Erik had driven the car were a fluid watercolor memory to her. She visualized him as she turned on the ignition. She imagined him as she put her foot on the clutch and shifted into first, but her memory skipped a beat and the engine stalled. Raoul, who was looking out his own open window, issued a grunt of contempt.

Closing her eyes, Christine focused on _becoming_ Erik as she shifted into gear once more. This time, the sleek Mercedes' engine moved the car smoothly into motion. Second gear, then third, went smoothly, and Raoul was staring at Christine openly. She joined the increasing traffic flawlessly as they moved towards the center of the city, past streetcars and around pedestrians.

One man who was part of a group crossing an avenue stopped to gawk at the woman driver, remaining squarely in front of the car. Christine's concentration broke, and the engine stalled. The man laughed at her openly then, shouted something about women at Raoul, and tipped his hat jeeringly at Christine as he finally left the middle of the street.

Angry, Christine threw the Mercedes into gear once more, finally covering the remaining distance to her house until she stopped one block from it. The vision of Erik became almost a tactile thing now, supporting her arms with his. His unmasked face smiled at her with open tenderness. She gave herself over to grief then, weeping openly, her head leaning against the steering wheel. As sobs wracked her body, she felt a touch on her shoulder, but it was not the one she wanted.

"You're in love with him," Raoul muttered. "Hell!"

"Yes," Christine replied without looking up. "I love him." _I love him._

Back at the flat, Raoul went silently to his room, and soon Christine could hear his snoring. She was tired, too – tired to the marrow of her bones, but she could not dream of sleeping.

She found the papers Erik had given Raoul on the dining room table. Sorting through them, she found the false identity papers, U.K. and U.S. passports, and safe conducts first. They all bore the names of a Doctor and Mrs. Angus Grubb. There were invitations on different letterheads to Dr. Grubb, who was to address medical conferences in Portugal and Spain.

So, she and Erik were to have traveled as an American – or English – physician and his wife. Christine cupped her chin in her hand, thinking. Erik had given his own papers to Raoul on some impulse, had changed his mind, had _given up completely._ But why? For a moment, Christine entertained the thought that he had tired of her – but, no, that was unlikely. Such a thing would not have happened so suddenly. The only other explanation that occurred to her was that Erik thought she still loved Raoul. He had no idea that she was in love with him – how could he? Until now, she had not realized it herself, not really. She was agonizingly conscious of it now.

Her first impulse was to take the Mercedes and seek Erik out at his home at Montjuic. Would he return there? Christine's fingers sought out the message-encoded music within the sheaf of papers on the table. She found it and quickly read the Morse hidden within its notes, frowning as the message became clear. Erik was revealing the address of a house in the El Coll neighborhood. Pressure on part of a bookcase in the living room would cause it to open, leading to a secret room with radiophonic equipment. Its encoded signals permitted German submarines to refuel at the beaches of El Prat without interference.

With this message, Erik was cutting ties with the Nazis completely and openly. Who else could have access to such information? He would have to leave Spain immediately. The alternative was unthinkable.

Christine continued to read the music, leafing through the long piece. There was another message, one that would affect Raoul.

* * *

Duty sent Christine to the Victoria that afternoon, while her heart longed to run to Montjuic and search for Erik. She thought of Raoul, still asleep in his bedroom. She would speak with him when the weekly recital was over.

She hoped to slip into her dressing room unnoticed. She was afraid of Carlotta, afraid that she would do something to sabotage the weekly recital if she saw her rival preparing to sing. Carlotta had always felt threatened by Christine, and though the woman's primary goal was to promote herself, her secondary goal was to end the careers of any other aspirants to the diva's crown.

Gasps of relief and applause greeted Christine from the minute she entered the Victoria's grand hall, though. She stopped, perplexed, scanning people's faces. Members of the chorus, stagehands, and several technicians...and Margarita, who arrived, breathless, and took Christine by the arm.

"Where have you been? Everyone's been looking for you!" Margarita asked as she dragged Christine towards her dressing room.

"Visiting Tibidabo," Christine replied.

"How could you visit an amusement park at a time like this?" Margarita jerked on the arm she was still clamping tightly.

"Ouch! It's a long story...what's going on, Marga?"

Margarita leveled an incredulous stare at her. "You mean you don't know?"

"I've been busy. Carlotta sang Turandot last night, so I left," Christine said.

"Well, you must have left before the end, because that tiger of Pursals' turned Carlotta into his evening meal in front of all of Barcelona's best."

It was now Christine's turn to stare. Margarita showed every sign of sincerity, though.

"Nice kitty," said Christine weakly, giving rein to her deepest, most honest response. "Is Carlotta...?"

"Dead? Unfortunately not. She was singing away, being the best ice princess she could be, when it happened. I have to admit that she was working very hard. She wanted to make the role definitively hers, and this time, of course there was no problem with the language. Her acting was good, though her voice can't come close to yours, not even in her dreams...Well, anyway, something about her annoyed the big cat and he just turned and swatted her with that big paw of his. She fell down, and he clamped on her legs and started worrying at them with his jaws. It took a while to get him away from her. The audience was screaming..."

"So she'll recover?" In spite of the loathing she felt for Carlotta, Christine was relieved.

"They think so. But she's in a wheelchair now. A couple of bones in her leg were broken, and then there are the lacerations, so... _you_ will be Turandot tonight and for the rest of this run."

"Oh." Christine thought of Erik. Would he be at the opera tonight? Surely he'd found out what had happened by now...surely he wouldn't leave before seeing her as Turandot.

"Of course, Carlotta wanted the whole production canceled. She doesn't want to see you in the principal role at all! But even her _dear friend_ Comandante Oscuro insists the show must go on, with or without Carlotta." Marga grinned maliciously.

Christine shuddered. "Comandante Oscuro wants to see me as Turandot."

"Well, _everyone_ does," Marga said. "Tonight's a full house. Everyone wants to see Carlotta reprise last night's performance, especially the Germans. They're sick of her and they'd love to see the tiger finish her off, preferably starting with her vocal cords. And you want to know something funny?"

"Something _funnier_?" Christine asked.

"They say someone stole the tiger's midday meal, the one he was supposed to eat before going onstage. _Somebody_ made sure he was good and hungry."

Christine froze in place, stunned. Erik's music slipped from her hand, landing squarely on her dresser. She picked it up quickly. She would have to memorize it and destroy it quickly.

"Oh, yes. This afternoon's concert. Time for you to change into your rubies again, Christine! You've got a busy day today..."

The door to the dressing room flew open, and both women turned to see who the intruder was this time.

"You!" Margarita nearly shrieked.

Carlotta sneered up at both women from her wheelchair. Her hair was perfectly coiffed, and she wore jewelry and lipstick. Beneath an ornately embroidered mantilla, one of her legs was encased in a bulky plaster cast.

Christine's gaze went to the woman pushing Carlotta's wheelchair. Paqui's grip on the handles was so firm that her knuckles were white. Her face was grim, impassive. She pushed the chair towards Christine, coming to face her so closely that the diva was nearly pushed up against the younger woman's knees. Paqui's eyes stared blankly into Christine's.

"So, you have succeeded in stealing my role from me!" Carlotta snarled, and Christine looked down at her. Without the ability to stand, Carlotta had lost the intimidating physical presence that her height and girth gave her. In fact, she was too close to the younger woman and was having to crane her neck to look up at her. Christine was reminded of a spoiled child.

"Paqui – pull me back, this is ridiculous!" Carlotta snapped at her assistant, aware of the effect the too-close distance was having on her attempt at drama. "What's wrong with you today?"

Carlotta snatched the music Christine held in her hand just before Paqui pulled her back – far back, to a distance of about five feet. Christine lunged towards Carlotta, intent on recovering her recital piece, but Carlotta blocked Christine with her arm and shoved it quickly into her purse.

"Oh, no, you don't, you filthy bitch! You may be playing Turandot tonight, but Carlotta will be singing _your_ music at this afternoon's recital. I won't let a little accident stop me, because I am an artist, a trouper to the very end! I may not be able to sing Turandot from a wheelchair, but I can sing at this recital! All of Barcelona will know that La Carlotta will not be defeated, not even by a tiger!" As Carlotta finished this noisy proclamation, she thrust her chin upward in a gesture of defiance that only looked ridiculous, confined as she was to her wheelchair. Christine was reminded, unpleasantly, of Comandante Oscuro.

"Carlotta, don't you already have a piece of your own prepared for today? Why do you need mine?" Christine attempted to reason with her, but it only caused the older woman to smile with the satisfaction of having done her injury.

"I will sing my own piece, and then I will sing _yours_. It will satisfy my fans, who will miss me as Turandot tonight – especially when they're subjected to _your_ caterwauling, little toad. If you have any problem with the recital program for today, you may see my managers. I am sure they will tell you I am right."

Carlotta flashed a toothy grin at Christine, then called for Paqui. "Time to leave! Out we go! Off to rehearse our _two_ pieces now!" Paqui knocked chips of plaster from the doorframe as she muscled the wheelchair through its opening. The door slammed behind her, and a picture of St. Eulalia fell off the wall and onto the floor.

"Of all the nerve!" Margarita exclaimed, her slender arms akimbo. "She's stolen your piece! I've never heard of such a thing!"

Christine shook her head. "It doesn't matter. As long as Carlotta sings my song from beginning to end, I'll be content." She smiled, thinking of how Carlotta would unwittingly be working for the Allies – sending a message that was sure to deliver a major blow.


	28. Chapter 28

_"'So many men just to kill three women!' shouted one of the women. The sound of shots rang out. I gave them absolution, and before the lieutenant could administer the coup de grâce , I distanced myself, walking like an automaton." [ from the diary of prison chaplain Gumersindo de Estella, who witnessed 1,700 executions]_ _The firing squad numbered 24 men..._

 _...The babies were a year old. They were the daughters of Selina Casa and Margarita Navascués. The women were accused of having tried to escape to the Republican zone the day before, 21st September 1937. Two nuns took their daughters after the mothers were killed._

 _–_ EL PAÍS _, "Una plaza para el cura que presenció 1.700 fusilamientos, April 1, 2014_

 _Five_ standing ovations. The roars of approval filled Christine's ears, but they were all mere white noise to her. Free to look out upon the audience now, Christine's eyes searched for the flash of a white half-mask, or the warm glow of yellow eyes. She smiled and curtsied absently, accepted a bouquet with a gracious nod and blew kisses, but her heart was somewhere else.

She had sung only for Erik. Turandot the ice princess had been awakened to love, and the unknown prince who had melted her heart was her husband.

 _My husband._

The velvet curtain finally closed at last, and Christine was borne aloft on a wave of fellow artists. She hugged Avelino Ruz, who had outdone himself as the prince. The rest of the cast surrounded them – they laughed, shouted, joked and exclaimed happily over the performance, and the huge knot of people moved haltingly towards the dressing rooms.

After quick change into a cocktail dress, Christine emerged once more into a crowded hallway. More people surrounded her on the way to the reception, there were more congratulatory shouts, and she found herself in the middle of a crush, unable to see anything much. Another burst of applause told Christine that they had arrived at the reception hall, and she smiled automatically, mentally preparing her arsenal of small talk for the evening. Soon she would escape and go to Erik. _Soon._

* * *

The room was more crowded than she had ever seen it. As she made the rounds and chatted with various patrons – in Spanish, English, and even a some Swedish – she noticed that Carlotta, too, was present. She was at the center of attention of a knot of people, ensconced in her wheelchair and covered in mink. As Christine examined the faces surrounding the diva, she saw fascination and curiosity. The tiger attack had renewed Carlotta's celebrity.

"...and I admit that the Daaé woman did a better job than I expected, but we shall see how things go tomorrow. She has always been inconsistent as a singer, at best. As soon as my leg has mended I will be back where I belong..." Carlotta was saying, her lilting accent more pronounced than ever as she held forth.

"What happened to that tiger?" someone interrupted. "Did they put it down after it attacked you?"

Carlotta's smile faltered, and she was about to issue a retort – Christine knew the diva well enough to _know_ that she was about to be unpleasant – when the room started to fall silent, starting from the people near the arched doorway and spreading throughout the rest of the room gradually. All eyes turned towards the entrance, where Christine could discern several men if she stood on tiptoe.

"...I apologize for having to end these festivities early," said Gonzalo Fernández, "but we must request that all guests leave now. We must have a word with the Victoria's cast and crew please, with no outsiders present, for the good of everyone here."

There was a low murmur of apprehension, and Christine saw that one of the men accompanying Gonzalo was a German officer whom she had met at receptions before. Henrik Beckmann was in uniform tonight, though, and obviously acting in his official capacity. Behind Gonzalo and Beckmann, several Spanish policemen scanned the crowd impassively.

The guests filtered out, not daring to look back at the artists and crew members who were left standing silently in the hall.

Gonzalo Fernández looked grim, his brow furrowed under a sheen of sweat that glistened on his forehead. He, too, was in uniform, and Christine cast an inquiring glance at Margarita. She succeeded in catching the dancer's eye, but Marga merely shook her head, her eyes wide and nervous.

Scanning the policemen behind Fernández, Christine noted that Comandante Oscuro was conspicuously absent. It was odd; if the matter at hand was important enough to summon Beckmann, Oscuro should have been present as the higher-ranking officer.

"I regret that I am obliged to ask you all this question, but I must," announced Gonzalo without preamble. "Are any of you aware of Allied spies who have infiltrated the ranks of the artists here at the Victoria? Do any of you have anything to say now, before it's too late?"

The room was completely silent, and Christine could see people exchanging terrified glances. Junyent and Soler were trembling in a distant corner.

When Carlotta cackled, everyone in the room jumped.

"I've told you and told you, but would you listen to Carlotta? No, no, no! Nobody listened! Christine Daaé is a Red judeo-masonic spy and has been a spy for those godless hordes for a long time – yes, a long time! And I'm sure, very sure, the little bitch has friends, too! Why else–?"

"Thank you, _signora_ ," Gonzalo cut her off smoothly. "The rest of you may leave, please. We will speak with Signora Carlotta and señora Daaé. Quickly, please..."

Christine remained standing where she was as the rest of the cast and crew left the room, many of them glancing back at her sympathetically. Marga gave her a long look and made to approach Gonzalo, but he warned her off with a sharp glance. At last, the two divas were alone with the authorities.

Henrik Beckmann cleared his throat. "This is not an easy task for me, nor is it agreeable. This afternoon, a message was delivered to the Allies. The vehicle through which this message was delivered was music itself. A piece sung at today's concert contained a message in Morse code within its notes. We have been told that such messages have been disseminated to the Allies in this way at each weekly recital, and that the Victoria's best, most celebrated soprano has been the traitor sending these messages." Beckmann's voice was calm and neutral. He had a good ear, and his Spanish only bore a slight accent.

Carlotta snorted. " _Best, most celebrated_ soprano? I would hardly call that toad the _best_! _I_ am the best."

" _Señores_ ," said Christine, keeping her voice carefully under control, "I didn't sing at the recital today, much less deliver a message as you describe. Carlotta sang today, though."

"It's true," said Gonzalo, turning to Beckmann as if he had just remembered something. "As busy as the day has been, I completely forgot that Daaé did not sing today. La Carlotta, however-"

Carlotta's complexion went from red to white. "She trapped me! That bitch gave me that music to sing! She's your spy, and she's a slippery one, too! And I know another thing about her -"

"All I remember is that _you_ wanted to keep me from singing at this afternoon's concert, Carlotta," Christine interrupted, in tones that she hoped conveyed sadness and disappointment.

"You little Red traitor!" Carlotta screamed, and she turned in her wheelchair frantically so that she faced Beckmann. "She pretends to be a widow, but her husband is with the French Resistance, and he's here in Barcelona – yes, a very big fish for you! My maid, Paqui, knows – she'll tell you! She'll tell you everything! And her friend, that anarchist bitch, Margarita -"

"Calm yourself, señora!" Gonzalo barked, then turned to Beckmann with a sigh. "You remember how this poor woman has behaved in public – even at the Ritz! All this time, it seems, she was on the offensive against señora Daaé because she knew it would divert attention from her own activities."

" _No!_ " screamed Carlotta, and Christine noted that beads of perspiration were collecting on her forehead and trembling upper lip. "Get Paqui! Get my maid! She knows the truth! She will tell you!"

"I don't see why -" Gonzalo began, but Beckmann cut him up with an imperious gesture.

"Things look very bad for Carlotta Caracciolo at the moment. She needs all the opportunities to defend herself that are available," Beckmann said. "Bring in her maid."

Christine's heart sank.

Within two minutes, a visibly cowed Paqui entered the hall. She stood, motionless, except for a thumb and forefinger that pinched and released the fabric of her skirt repeatedly.

"Paqui, tell these men the truth," Carlotta said with a sweetness to her tone that was meant to be disarming. "Tell them how Christine Daaé gave me that music in her dressing room today. She did, didn't she?"

Paqui coughed and glanced at the floor before looking from Gonzalo to Beckmann almost apologetically. "I will not lie to you gentlemen, no matter how much the señora wants me to. Carlotta brought her own music today. She always brings her own music to the weekly recital."

There was a silence. Christine stared at Paqui and tried to hide her amazement. Paqui was a better actress, she decided, than anyone else present in the room.

" _You little bitch!_ " Carlotta screamed, a sheen of sweat now covering her motley complexion. "How could you do this to me? I am innocent! I am a staunch supporter of the Falange! I am-"

"Whatever you are, we will need a list of your collaborators. We will also need the music from today's recital as well as previous recitals," Beckmann said. "Captain Fernández..."

"Yes. Her dressing room will be searched," Fernández replied, and he nodded to two of the officers behind him, who left the room eagerly.

A knot that had been forming in Christine's stomach tightened. Erik's music! If they found it, they would decipher its message. Or did they know what it contained already? _How much did they know?_ Her mind raced. If the police had not stopped today's concert before its damaging message could be disseminated, then perhaps nobody but her contact had heard and interpreted the code. The Gestapo must have arrested and interrogated one of her contacts, but she did not know how many there were or who they were, or even how much they might know. One thing was clear: her code had been broken.

 _Oh, where was Erik?_ She had to move, she had to get to Carlotta's dressing room before the officers found the music.

"May I leave now?" she asked, but her question was drowned out.

Three officers had surrounded Carlotta, and one began to push her wheelchair out of the room. The diva was screaming invectives in Italian and began to slide out of the wheelchair. There was a flurry of movement as hands seized her, hauling her up into the seat again. She screamed more loudly.

Christine feigned grief at the indignity of Carlotta's situation and, turning, took measured steps towards the exit. Paqui glanced at her with naked curiosity.

Beckmann seized Christine's elbow and escorted her gallantly away from the scene. When they had reached a connecting hallway, he turned to her, shaking his head sadly.

"I apologize for your having to witness such a scene, señora Daaé. It's a shame that such treason has occurred here, within the walls of this opera house. Such a thing does harm to everyone working for our common cause."

A feeling of apprehension and suspicion invaded Christine at Beckmann's words, but a veiled glance at him revealed his sincerity. He was a devotee of the Reich and was suffering the pangs of honest disappointment. She breathed again.

"Might I add, however, how relieved and happy I am that the treachery was not _yours_ , señora Daaé?" added Beckmann almost shyly. "Considering how wonderfully you interpret Wagner – and your beautiful Turandot tonight – it would have been a terrible loss indeed."

He was an opera lover, then. He kissed her hand with practiced gallantry, turned on his heel, and headed back towards Carlotta's screams. As soon as he was out of sight, Christine shifted direction, her mind focused on Carlotta's dressing room. As she turned the next corner, though, a hand gripped her arm, this time painfully.

"Christine. How nice to see you again." It was Comandante Oscuro.

* * *

Oscuro permitted her to put her coat, hat and gloves on and retrieve her purse, but nothing more. His eyes never left her.

"You won't escape this time...and neither will Deschamps, if I find him." He pushed the cold barrel of his gun against her back again for emphasis. The pressure of it would leave bruises, Christine knew, but she refused to wince. _Calm. I must be calm._

"I don't know where he is now. He's left me, you know," Christine said, though she knew instinctively that Oscuro would be implacable. She could feel it in his heat, in his breathing, in the endless _something_ that writhed within the cold depths of his black eyes.

The revolver pressed harder. "It doesn't matter if he's left you. He has gold bars, and he has them hidden somewhere, and I know you know where. The Gestapo is keeping him very busy right now – very busy indeed – so we'll have time to look for his little treasure without interference."

"Comandante Oscuro, I don't know -"

As he backhanded her, her head snapped to the side, and sparks of pain centered, then radiated from the side of her head. Over the ringing in her ear, she could hear him laugh.

"You think I'm going to coddle you as your other men do? Your services may be expensive, but you're still nothing better than a common whore."

Christine remained silent and kept her eyes carefully trained on the floor.

"You will take me to his home. I know you can lead me there safely. And I believe I'll have you drive." Oscuro lifted his chin and grinned. For a split second Christine raised her eyes and thought she saw a death's head in his lineaments, but the illusion was fleeting.

As Oscuro marched her through the now-empty hallways of the Victoria out towards the street, Christine was on the verge of turning and slapping him, of _inviting_ him to kill her. Guiding Oscuro to Erik's home was a betrayal, and could even endanger her husband. Yet something within kept her from acting so recklessly. _There is hope yet._


	29. Chapter 29

_Things unknown are clarified in THE JEWISH PROBLEM, a book by ALFONSO DE CASTRO with a prologue by RUBÉN SALAZAR MALLÉN – a tome of 304 pages at a price of 12 pesetas (13 pesetas in provinces) – EDITORIAL RUBIÑOS, ALCALÁ 104, MADRID_

 _– Advertisement in_ LA VANGUARDIA _, November 14, 1941_

Theirs was a dark burlesque of a couple out for an evening stroll. Oscuro remained close at Christine's side, the barrel of his service revolver hidden within his coat but always prodding her waist. There were few people out that late in the evening, but the one or two people they encountered on their way scarcely looked at them as they bade them a good evening. As they left the Avenida del Paralelo and approached the area where the Mercedes was parked, she opened her purse. Her fingers fumbled within, seeking the keys to the car, and touched something smooth and cool as stone: the handle of Raoul's pocketknife.

The only question, Christine decided, was where and when to use the pocketknife – certainly not here, out in the open. The tunnels under Montjuic would be the ideal place, provided she could move well within the darkness there. She went through a mental tally of the various traps Erik had laid. Some were as crude and pedestrian as foothold traps, designed to discourage the accidental explorer. Erik's more sophisticated traps were likelier to prove a distraction to someone like Oscuro.

The 170V's motor roared to life, and the car jerked and shuddered into the road. Oscuro pushed the barrel of the gun into Christine's side so forcefully that she jumped. The motor stalled and died.

"You can drive better than that. I've seen it. Try again." His eyes were flat with cold hatred.

Breathing deeply, she turned the ignition and put the car into gear – this time, smoothly.

* * *

José Luis Oscuro felt the joy of his triumph thrum within him, pumping through him like the blood through his veins. The hours he had spent following Deschamps' whore would finally pay off.

He knew the Daaé woman had said nothing of him to Deschamps, intimate as they were. She was the kind of woman who ignored men like himself completely. She would never take him seriously as a friend or as an enemy, or as anything. In fact, at times it seemed as if she looked right through him. That had changed.

Deschamps would never suspect anything until it was too late. Oscuro had been very careful – luck had been in love with him lately. It was the kind of luck that normally led to recklessness, but he was wise enough not to be careless. When they had arrested that Allied spy, he had not guessed that the man would prove so valuable. The man was typical of the sad cases who appeared before him, often falsely accused of spying by a neighbor or someone well placed in the Regime. It was the cyanide capsule that had given the man away. He had been caught trying to bring it to his mouth and had been stopped right in the nick of time. After that, the man had become very useful once he was subjected to Oscuro's expert interrogation techniques. He had _sung, given away the goods, spilled the beans._ When he mentioned that a soprano at the Victoria was singing messages in Morse code, every window of opportunity in Barcelona seemed to open to him. _He knew._ Christine was the one who had corrupted Deschamps and turned his loyalty towards the Allies, he was sure of it.

The trouble was that the spy had not given away everything. He knew that there had been a message disseminated at the concert that very afternoon, but he insisted, under great pressure, that he himself had not been the contact at the Victoria that day. Oscuro scowled. Perhaps the man had lied. It was true that Christine had not sung that afternoon, so it was likely that the message had not been released. He would enjoy interrogating Christine about any and all communications she had sent.

Carlotta's arrest had come as a surprise to Oscuro. He had sent his _good friend_ Gonzalo Fernández to investigate the spy's claims, but he had taken the precaution of informing the Gestapo of what was transpiring. Fernández would not be permitted to protect Christine this time. Oscuro had followed his men to the Victoria to watch, unobserved, as Christine fell into the hands of the Gestapo – and into his. When Carlotta was arrested instead, he experienced only mild annoyance – the woman had not been very useful as an informant, and she demanded much more in return than she was worth. As he watched the drama unfold in the Victoria's hall, he had decided that perhaps this was his golden opportunity. Luck was still in love with him.

After all, he knew exactly where Deschamps was this very minute. The spy he had interrogated was just the beginning. The man had named names, and soon his entire network would be arrested. More expert interrogation was required, and Deschamps was about to be very busy, no matter where his loyalties lay. Knowing what the situation required, Oscuro estimated that Deschamps would be at the Laietana station the entire night.

Christine finally stopped the Mercedes at the foot of Montjuic. He could see her withdraw the key from the ignition, hesitating. He pulled out his revolver to where she could see it again, pointing it directly at her face.

"Move it!" Oscuro barked, and they both got out of the car at the same time. He was careful lest she try to run, and soon he was gripping her arm again, the gun hidden but pressed to her side once more.

They climbed up pathways, away from the street, until they approached a wall. Dark ivy cascaded from the top of it, covering most of its surface with its green tendrils. After a moment of hesitation, Christine pulled a key out of her purse and scrutinized the wall. Just as Oscuro was about to ask whether she had lost her mind, she reached through the ivy, unlocking and opening a hidden door in almost a single motion. Beyond the doorway, he could see nothing but blackness. Something within him shivered, but he ignored it.

* * *

Oscuro's gun continued to nag at Christine's side as she groped in the darkness for the flashlight.

 _Christine, come to me whenever you can. If you will not stay with me, at least come to me. I will meet you..._

She blinked back tears. By now, Erik's alarms would be going off. More than once, he had met her at the entrance of the Montjuic tunnels, prepared for an enemy, but his eyes glowing with peace as he saw that it was only she. Only Christine. _Only you, Christine..._

This time it wasn't _only Christine_ , though. She knew now that Oscuro was dangerous, very dangerous, and she prayed that Erik would arrive – and arrive prepared for combat. He, too, was _dangerous._ He was danger personified! She had never felt grateful for that fact until now. In a flash of insight, she realized that people like Oscuro had formed Erik's life – had made him what he was. Oh, why hadn't she told Erik about Oscuro?

She turned on the flashlight, and the brick arches of the concrete tunnel lay exposed to the light. She trained the beam upward on purpose, hoping that Oscuro would be distracted enough to miss the traps below. The traps that came from above would be further down the tunnel. With a little luck, Oscuro would be dispatched before they had progressed much farther.

"Give me that flashlight." Oscuro's voice interrupted Christine's thoughts.

He pulled the flashlight out of her hand and trained its beam downward. Several ground-traps lay exposed, but right before their feet, camouflaged in the dust, was the trap that Christine hoped Oscuro would trip. But he directed the light downward, carefully examining the dust, and skirted the trap.

"If you don't wish to die immediately, you'll let me know about any other traps like that one, understand?" Oscuro snapped, gripping Christine's arm more tightly. She nodded.

Once Oscuro had returned the flashlight to her, Christine proceeded more slowly through the tunnel. The revolver prodded at her like a phallus, and she summoned up the calm to ignore it, to try to think. Breathing deeply, she wondered vaguely how the _comandante_ 's wife could stand him. She led Oscuro around another trapdoor, then started to count steps.

 _One...Two...and –_

"Stop here," Christine directed, and Oscuro halted with her. "I'm never sure how to disarm this one properly."

Her foot found the right spot – she knew it well – and she triggered the mechanism that brought the flames to life. She heard the familiar _whoosh_ , and the fire came so close as to nearly singe them. This time, though, she was outside the trap, watching as the flames gradually grew and tightened around a nonexistent victim.

The gun's pressure against her side disappeared, and in spite of the roar of the inferno before them, she could hear Oscuro stepping back. Discreetly turning off the flashlight, she moved her hands to where one of the sensors was, deactivating Erik's trap of fire. The effect was immediate. With a sound like a vacuum _shoop_ , the flames disappeared into the floor of the tunnel once more. Now there was only complete darkness and the acrid smell of smoke. Christine moved to the side, away from where she judged Oscuro to be.

"Turn on the flashlight! Or were you stupid enough to drop it? Where are you?" came Oscuro's voice.

Calculating Oscuro's position, Christine set the flashlight down, peeled her gloves off, and reached into her purse. Her fingers found the pocketknife, gripped the handle, and flicked open the blade. She dropped her gloves and purse on the floor and waited.

"Get over here!" His tone was irritated but unafraid.

 _If I could get him to go back five feet..._

She moved backwards, trying to position herself beside one of the trapdoors they had passed, just as she perceived Oscuro moving in the darkness. Had he heard her movements, too? Every breath she took seemed to her to broadcast her location. Something hard hit her leg, and she realized it was his knee. She backed up, but it was too late. His hand found her hat, knocking it off, and he pulled at the hair she had collected into a tidy bun. Gripping the knife tighter, Christine swung wildly until the blade connected with what she calculated to be the base of his neck.

Oscuro screamed but gained a purchase on her arm. "Whore!"

They struggled, Christine trying to pull away from him. She transferred the knife to her left arm, which was free, and swung again, thrusting the knife into whatever part of Oscuro it had connected with. She realized with a sinking heart that she had barely penetrated beyond his coat. The knife jerked away from her grip, and she heard it clattering to the floor.

A punch in her shoulder, then another in her back, knocked Christine to the floor. Attempting to get up, she felt a sudden pain in her thigh as Oscuro kicked at her blindly. She folded herself into a fetal position, protecting herself as he kicked her mercilessly, mostly on her arms and legs. He landed a strong blow on her head, and sparks of light floated in her field of vision. Just when she felt she would pass out, the beating stopped.

"Get the flashlight," Oscuro said.

Christine continued on the floor, wishing she could just sleep...or die. But she opened her eyes and jumped as a gunshot thundered into the floor beside her. She coughed as hot dust rose and struggled to her feet. Oscuro gripped her arm once more and shook her.

"The flashlight," he repeated.

Trying to orient herself in the darkness, Christine lifted a trembling hand and found the wall, moving it downward until she came to the ground. She traced the wall with her fingers for about a yard until they bumped against the flashlight. Picking it up, she turned it on, blinking as the bright beam illuminated the tunnel once more. Daring a glance at Oscuro, she saw that he was bleeding just below his left eye. She had nearly blinded him with the knife, and she breathed a sigh of frustration that she had failed to put out his eye. Her own fingers were wet with blood where he had kicked them, and searing pain radiated from her left index finger.

Shaking her again, Oscuro urged her onward with a curse. Christine limped forward. Her legs felt like liquid pain, but she gritted her teeth and continued to the left, down the more narrow tunnels that led to Erik's home.

* * *

"It's a damn luxury hotel!" Oscuro exclaimed as he entered Erik's study. His eyes looked hungrily at every object in the room, lingering on the golden bookends, a gem-encrusted vase, and a Moroccan tea set worked in gold. His revolver still dug into Christine's side.

Christine was staring at Erik's piano, though. Music was scattered all over its surface, and much of it was stacked below it – reams of work by hand. There was broken glass and sand on the floor nearby, and she realized that he had broken an hourglass that had once graced one of the mahogany tables.

"Where does he keep those gold bars? Show me now, or I swear I'll kill you!" Oscuro was breathing heavily.

Her heart sank. Even as she led Oscuro to the hallway where the vault was, she knew what she would find. As she turned the lock, using the combination Erik had taught her – the numbers from her own birth date – she knew. Oscuro pulled the heavy door open impatiently, and they both looked inside the vault. It was empty and clean. The gold bars were already on their way to America.

"He's taken them. There used to be bars here, but he's taken them away," Christine said tiredly.

Oscuro cursed, moving slightly into the vault as if to verify the fact that nothing remained. He stood there for several minutes, still gripping Christine's arm, but he had lowered his revolver. Finally, he seemed to awaken from his stupor, and he looked at her with a new, even darker light in his eyes.

"Very well," he said. "Deschamps has cheated me out of the gold. There's still something left to console me, besides those knickknacks in the study. Let's go into the bedroom – at least you can be good for some purpose." He lifted his chin and leered at her.

This was what Oscuro had intended all along, Christine realized. All the times he had made advances on her – even under the veil of politeness – had been a prelude to rape. He resented Erik for some reason, and by association, she had become the object of his black, bottomless hate. Tears rolled down her swollen cheeks. There was only one hope left for her.

* * *

As Christine led Oscuro to her bedroom, she barely felt the pain in her finger or throughout her body anymore.

She turned to him, feigning shy subservience, as they reached the foot of the bed. "Won't you let me change, at least? Look, I have some nice lingerie in here." She led him to the wardrobe and opened the door. The evening dress that she had worn the first time Erik had brought her to his home was hanging where she had left it. Reaching towards it, her fingers quickly searched for the cyanide capsule that she had once stitched into its satin hem. It was gone. _Erik!_

Oscuro was grinning sardonically. "Do you think I give a damn what a whore like you happens to be wearing before I take her to bed? You'll please me, Christine, whether you care to or not. Oh, you'll please me without a stitch of clothing on." He pointed the gun at her again. "Just take everything off, and I'll take charge from there."

This time she fought her tears. Oscuro watched as she took her coat off. It dropped to the floor. She stood before him in her cocktail dress, and he waved the gun up and down slightly, ordering her to continue. She reached back, unzipping the zipper, her fingers in agony, and the tears she had been fighting came to the surface. The dress dropped from her shoulders and pooled around her ankles in a sea of gray silk.

"Shit! You're pregnant!" Oscuro exclaimed, and he started to laugh.

Christine looked down at the girdle she was wearing to hide her expanding midriff. She was in her fifth month by now and just beginning to show, but what Oscuro had said was true. He was the first person besides herself to know it. Even if he had not planned on killing her earlier he was certain to do it now – now that he knew. Her tears turned to sobs.

That was when the piano music started. A slow, quiet melody ascended into a graceful crescendo and continued in a 4/4 time signature. Christine's heart fluttered, then beat more quickly.

Oscuro, who had frozen in place, grasped Christine's bare arm and held the gun to her temple. He pulled her slowly out of the bedroom, silently following the music to the study. In spite of her pain, Christine noted with satisfaction that Oscuro was trembling.

"Deschamps!" Oscuro barked as they entered the study.

Then, both Christine and Oscuro stared. The piano was playing by itself.

"It's a player piano, and he has it on a timer," Christine lied soothingly. She listened carefully to the message within the music even as she spoke.

Oscuro lowered the gun and released her. "How does Deschamps control the thing?" he asked. He frowned in suspicion, but she noticed how his stance had shifted slightly forward. His curiosity was getting the better of him.

Her heart leaped at his opportune question. "There's an electromechanical device just under the keyboard. Did you know Erik is an inventor? I guess not..."

Christine closed her eyes briefly in prayer as Oscuro approached the piano, bending to examine the keyboard, searching for... _something_.

"I don't see any -" Oscuro's gun discharged as the floor gave way beneath him, and she heard the heavy thud as he hit the bottom of some deep pit. Then there was silence, and she wondered whether he had shot himself or been knocked unconscious.

Just as she sank to the floor, Christine saw the door open. She nearly smiled as a dark form flew towards her, graceful in spite of the panic in its golden eyes.

"Erik," she murmured gratefully. Her eyes closed.


	30. Chapter 30

**Many thanks to all who have given such kind feedback, whether it be approbation or criticism. I learn through both! I've been crazy busy but try to respond to reviews - though I must admit with a pang that I'm unable to stuff the inboxes of my anonymous reviewers with thank-you notes. :) So, many thanks to** **MlleNikki, Sandy, thechit, Darklady, Grandma Paula, Alejandra, Sandy Hurst, Miss Phan, and all others who choose to review anonymously. I'm very grateful! This story is winding down gradually - it's 33 chapters total, and that includes the epilogue. Thanks to all who continue to read.  
**

* * *

 _His Majesty the Emperor King of Italy has deigned to concede the Commendation of the Order of the Crown of Italy to the director of LA VANGUARDIA ESPAÑOLA, Don Luis de Galinsoga, and the Cross of the Knight of the same Order to the editor-in-chief of this newspaper, Don Antonio Martínez Tomás._

 _–_ LA VANGUARDIA _, November 19, 1941_

A cool hand caressed Christine's forehead. She woke slightly, then dozed. Distant screams and muffled pleas brought her to near wakefulness, but she drifted off again. Erik inhabited her dreams, his words of love sheathed in tones so desperate that she cried. She struggled to speak and failed. The life within her quickened, fluttering with the wings of a butterfly.

It was the sound of the gunshot that finally awakened her. Christine had swung her legs over the side of the bed, alarmed, before pain reminded her of where she was and what had happened. Her head throbbed, and her bare legs were mottled with bruises. Dazed, she brought her hand up to her eyes and observed that her index finger was splinted. She was dressed in the simplest, softest nightgown that Erik had given her.

A shadow fell over her, and she turned to see Erik watching her. He was maskless and in shirtsleeves. His forearms were bloodied with scratches, and he was wiping his hands on a towel. Christine noticed that it was a kitchen towel she herself had often used. It was embroidered with roosters and hens engaged in a merry dance against a rising sun. All of them were covered with blood now.

"I apologize for the noise," he said, dropping to his knees before her. "Rest now, Christine. You need sleep..." His voice had dropped to a hypnotic hum, one Christine knew all too well.

"Don't make me sleep, Erik! Please don't make me sleep! I have so much to say to you," Christine said. "I'm so happy you're safe! But what's happened to your hands?"

Erik offered her a rare grin, but the flash of white teeth was completely sardonic. "What, is Erik's wife worried about her husband's safety? Perhaps he is in need of a bodyguard or two?" He sighed, and the look he gave her was so openly tender that Christine's heart sped up. "You need not worry, Christine. Aside from some scratches, the blood on my hands is not my own. A minor troglodyte like José Luis Oscuro is no challenge for _me_ , even when I jump into his oubliette with him to give him a _fighting chance_." The last two words were accompanied by a sneer.

"You've killed him?" Christine asked. For once, she hoped Erik _had_ killed someone.

"No; he decided to shoot _himself_ after a very lengthy discussion with me. It was a rather messy business. I could have given him a noose, but he preferred the revolver. He abused my generosity rather shockingly. Besides awakening my poor wife, he has obliged me to clean both my trap and _myself_! Such drudgery..." Erik shook his head sadly.

"Oh, Erik! I'm so sorry about all this. I didn't mean to intrude on you, but he pulled a gun on me! If you want me to leave, I'll go back to Raoul and -"

"Enough of that! If you think I ever intended to let you leave with _him_ , you're quite mad, my dear!" He reached for her, but his bloodstained hands stopped, hovering midway towards her. "I will no longer let you out of my sight for more than five minutes. You see what nearly happened to you! You see why you need your Erik! You know now that the boy cannot protect you..." He clasped his gory hands together tightly.

Christine stared. "But, Erik...you told Raoul to take me to Portugal, and you left me standing at the altar!"

"Christine," he sighed, "it was a ruse. You stood there, beautiful as any angel, and promised yourself to me the very same way a saint accepts martyrdom. Oh, I'll take you on those terms if I must – I'll take you on _any_ terms, whether you want it or not, that is how wicked Erik is – but I thought that perhaps..." Here, he sighed again, more deeply, "It was a leap of faith. I dared to hope you might _wish_ to be my wife deep in your heart, might nurture feelings for your poor Erik deep down that would bring you back to me on your own...I want more from you, Christine, than for you to offer yourself up to me as a human sacrifice. I want so much more. But I want _you_ above all things."

Five terrible seconds passed during which Erik observed Christine as she tried fruitlessly to control herself. Finally, she burst into tears just as she began to speak. "Erik, you were right. You were... so right! I do love you, I...I do love you...that way, the way you want me to...I do!" Her sobs finally made speech impossible, and when Erik stood, his eyes glowing, she launched herself into his arms, completely oblivious to his bloody hands and her own battered state.

"Christine, my Christine," he murmured, his arms tight around her. "My love." He pressed his lips to the top of her head, whispering his love to her. His whispers turned to murmurs, and Christine marveled anew at the beauty of his hypnotic voice, falling more and more deeply under his spell until she was fast asleep.

* * *

"Erik, how long have I slept?" Christine asked, hurrying into the study. She had awakened from her Erik-induced slumber to find her bruises fading and her pain gone. Wanting to look her best for her husband, she had bathed and washed her hair. The dress she had chosen to wear had a high waist, but her pregnancy bump was still visible. She wondered what Erik had done with her girdle.

Erik was immaculate, even with his sleeves rolled up. Ever formal, he was wearing a closely-fitted white dress shirt, starched, with ivory buttons. His black trousers were perfectly fitted, and Christine abandoned her train of thought as she looked at him appreciatively. He turned from the boxes he was packing to survey her, and his golden eyes moved over her figure with slow, lazy pleasure. The light reflected off his white half-mask, leaving the exposed half of his face in shadow.

"Two days, Christine. You've been asleep for two days," Erik finally answered, "and now you need to eat."

"Oh, Erik, everything's such a mess! That message you gave me to send – Carlotta snatched it from me, and -" Christine fell into an armchair and pulled fretfully at her damp hair.

Erik smiled and waved a dismissive hand. "I'm aware of what transpired. Very clever of you to turn it to your advantage, my love! You needn't worry – the police have no idea what message Carlotta transmitted. Our music has disappeared from her dressing room, and she herself has suffered a convenient lapse of memory. The only thing the police found was the accompanist's copy, and that, as you know, does not contain the melody line. What's more, every page of sheet music she ever possessed has mysteriously disappeared from Carlotta's dressing room and home, rendering her case more and more suspicious by the minute. Few people in the audience, if asked, will remember anything about her unremarkable performances, not even the music she used – I must say, things are working out wonderfully. I'm sorry to report that the contact who told the authorities about your encoding methods died in police custody of an apparent heart attack. He really knew little about anything else – the clumsy _interrogation_ methods they used on him yielded only desperate lies. Amateurs! The investigation is at a dead end. We have some time left before we must travel to Lisbon."

He had approached Christine as he spoke, and his hands moved carefully over her head, checking her injuries, then slid to her ribs, and finally rested on her abdomen. "You have kept things from me, Christine. That ends now, my love."

"I'm sorry, Erik," Christine said, blushing and looking down at her splinted finger. "There are so many things I've tried not to think about, and the baby is one of them. I couldn't really _believe_ I was pregnant, Erik – not until a few days ago, when I felt movement. This couldn't come at a worse time, could it?"

The sound of Erik's soft laughter, unique and beautiful, prompted Christine to look up at him inquiringly. "Nonsense. You've made your Erik a very happy man, many times over! I'll have us situated comfortably in New York long before our child arrives. I have been invited to work there for the Allies."

Christine nodded, relieved. Then, the other shoe dropped.

"And now I must ask you, my wife, about another thing you kept from me. _Why_ did you never tell your Erik about that cockroach of a policeman who was bothering you? You deliberately kept this information from me, even as I was trying to protect you - distracted as I was by your charms. Why, Christine? You gave your poor Erik the worst fright of his life last night!" He was on his knees before her once more, and he gripped her good hand with both of his.

Shame colored Christine's cheeks. "I...thought Oscuro was just another man with lascivious intentions. He was following me and knew something of my activities, but I just thought he wanted to take me to bed with him. Then, after a while, he seemed to hate me. I thought maybe he was the one who had tried to poison me – but he wasn't. I wanted to talk to you about him, I really did, but you might have killed him, and I didn't want that on my conscience. When he got married, he sort of disappeared, and I thought he'd lost interest in me."

"You did not wish for me to kill him," Erik repeated, bemused. "That turned out very well indeed."

"I promise not to do that again," Christine offered, placing her free hand awkwardly against his cheek. Her splinted index finger saluted the ceiling.

"No, you will not _do that_ again!" Erik snapped. "Imagine how I felt when, at the eleventh hour, someone with the police informed me of the interest Oscuro had taken in you..."

"Gonzalo Fernández," Christine interrupted.

"The same. I knew at once Oscuro sought to injure me by taking you, I knew he longed for treasure, I knew he thought me occupied, I knew I had to hurry back here. And when I found the knife, your hat, and the blood... _Christine!_ How could you have left your poor Erik in the dark?"

Pulling her up from the chair until she was standing with him, he clutched at her, completely abandoned to whatever emotions gripped him. Christine was ready for him, though. She held on to him as tightly as she could in return, murmuring promises to him until he finally relaxed. The baby, perhaps sensing something, quickened between them.

* * *

Five days later, Christine finally returned to her flat on the Ronda de Sant Pau. Her husband waited below in the Mercedes, his demeanor one of forced patience. Erik had become her constant shadow and barely left her side these days. Whenever Christine drifted out of his sight for anything more than five minutes, he would become tense and agitated and was apt to be ill-tempered as well.

This last visit to her old home was necessary, though, and both she and Erik knew it. Christine hugged her coat to herself. She was dressed too warmly for an overcast autumn morning, but that, too, was necessary.

She stood before her flat, rummaging in her purse for her key. The door suddenly opened, and Raoul stood before her, staring at her with something akin to disbelief.

"Christine! Are you all right? Where have you been?" He reached out and pulled Christine into the flat, looking out the door before closing it to make sure that there were no unwanted observers in the stairway. "I received a message saying you were well and in no danger, but it wasn't from you. What's happened?"

Raoul's hands were gripping Christine's upper arms. He smelled of nicotine and freshly applied cologne and was in trousers and undershirt. She broke away from him, moving several paces past him into the room, then turned on her heel to face him.

"Before I explain anything, I've received a message that affects your work with the Resistance. There's an informant among the Spanish exiles in France. He was with the Izquierda Republicana de Cataluña during the Republic – but now he's turned traitor, and it may very well affect your Resistance cell, Raoul. Do you know who he is?"

Raoul started to run his hands through his hair, but ended up clutching the sides of his head as if in agony. "Trabal!" he moaned. "He's a Gestapo informant? Where did you get that information?" Raoul looked at Christine with the light of dawning suspicion in his eyes. "You went back to him, didn't you? How could you?"

"Please believe that the information I've just given you comes from a reliable source, no matter what your opinion of him is – no matter what your feelings are," Christine continued, sidestepping the invitation to quarrel. "You're going to have to leave this country as soon as possible. You're at risk here and needed in France. Here are instructions and a safe conduct for your travel up to the Pyrenees." She unbuttoned her coat and removed a bulky brown envelope from within, handing it to him.

Raoul made no move to accept the envelope, though, and stood staring at Christine, scowling. "Up till today, I believed you to be my wife. I was willing to change everything for you, to go to Lisbon, even to New York! What happened?"

" _Were_ you really going to take me to Lisbon, Raoul?" Christine asked, smiling slightly.

Raoul's gaze slid sideways. "Of course."

"No, you weren't. You were going to take me straight to France and park me with your brother, as you'd planned. Admit it!"

The cloudy gray light coming in through the windows made Raoul's silence heavier. Christine went to the dining room table, pulled out a chair, and sat down. She placed the brown envelope on top of Mamá's old table runner and ran her fingers over its crocheted loops. She noticed that there was now a cigarette burn in it. A chair scraped against the floor, and she looked up to see Raoul seating himself adjacent to her.

"You could stay here, Christine, while I finish up my work in France. Then, when the war ends and it's safe for you, you could join me. You don't have to stay with my brother."

Raoul covered her good hand with his; he hadn't noticed the splint on her other hand. The bruises on her face were fading and artfully hidden by makeup. There was little that could be done about her expanding midriff now, though. She still had no idea what Erik had done with her girdle. Fortunately, Raoul was in no mood to examine her.

"Don't you remember all the good times we had together, Christine? How much love we shared? We were married, you and I. It's just the fascists that annulled that, the way they want to annul the Republic into nonexistence. But it did exist, and so do _we_."

It was a low blow, and Christine breathed deeply to resist the anger that was encroaching. In the end, she surrendered to it.

"Raoul, if the Regime hadn't annulled our marriage, I might have done it myself after so many years of abandonment. Please don't tell me how noble a cause it was! It's like hearing a man praise his mistress to his wife! And if you really care so much about your work with the Resistance, what have you been doing spending months with me here? I'll tell you! It's all because of your pride – because you had to check on the _little woman's_ fidelity, after years of nothing from you! Sometimes I think the only reason you became such a fighter was because of pride, too – so you could be a hero." She pressed her lips together tightly, almost sorry for all that had come out of her mouth. Almost.

"You know we both believed in this cause. We both wanted to defend the Republic, Christine," Raoul responded. Something about her angry outburst had calmed him.

"Yes, and now you're fighting in France, too. I understand, Raoul," Christine said, "but whatever you say, I'm married to Erik now, and I'm leaving with him."

Raoul smiled grimly. "He didn't seem so eager to take you with him the other night."

"It was his way of giving me a choice, Raoul. He wanted me to choose him over you in the end, and I did."

Raoul's smile became a bitter grimace, and he sat silently with his elbows on the table, his head propped on his hands. Christine went to fetch her carpetbag from her bedroom. She saw that her bed was unmade and had been slept in. The room smelled of stale tobacco.

"Raoul," she said, as she emerged from the bedroom, "I do so want us to remain friends. We've been through so much together, and as you've said, we've had so many good times, too. Whenever you're free to write -"

Raoul rounded on her with a viciousness she had never seen in him. "How _dare_ you talk to me about _remaining friends_ , especially now! You're _nothing_ to me anymore, do you understand? Yes, go back with him, and see how well he treats you – you'll get what you deserve. Just don't come to me or contact me ever again, do you understand?" His face was contorted with rage, and Christine took a step back.

"I think it's time we left, Christine," came the cool sound of Erik's voice from the doorway.

Christine startled, but she hurried to Erik, who put a protective arm around her. His eyes were fixed on Raoul with something approaching pity.

"Read the instructions in that envelope, de Chagny," Erik said, "and make sure that you are out of this flat by the end of tomorrow, for your own safety."

They closed the door on Raoul.


	31. Chapter 31

_On 5 August 1939 in Madrid, fifty-six prisoners were executed including a fourteen-year-old boy and thirteen women, seven of whom were under the age of twenty-one. They came to be known as the Trece Rosas, thirteen roses whose fate symbolized the cruelty of the Franco regime._

 _– Paul Preston,_ The Spanish Holocaust

"You've turned me into a shameless creature," Christine lamented, but she couldn't suppress a shaky smile.

Erik hovered above her, his long fingers pushing strands of hair off her forehead as she came gradually back down to earth. Where had she been? Wherever it was, Erik had been there with her, in the eye of the storm; she could still feel the last gentle waves moving within her.

" _Shameless_?" Erik whispered against her neck, his stubble scraping its flesh. "The only thing _you_ have to be ashamed of is having left your Erik for so long. And now, just where do you think you're going?"

Christine was rolling towards the edge of the bed in order to reach her nightgown, which was somewhere on the floor. Erik seized her by the waist and pulled her towards the middle of the bed again, pinning her down gently.

"Erik, please! At least pull a sheet over me! I'm stark naked, my hair is a mess, and I'm fat!" Christine pushed against him.

"And I wish to remember you this way forever," Erik murmured, and his eyes burned with the intensity that had always made Christine shiver – once upon a time, out of fear, but now with delight.

"The way you make me feel is sinful," she declared, huffing, "and I'm so ugly!"

As she flung her arm outward in exasperation, her hand landed on Erik's mask, which was lying forgotten on his side of the bed. It gleamed in the lamplight.

" _Ugly_ , you say? _You_ , my dear?" Erik's unmasked face, hideous in its asymmetry, hovered over her. When he grinned, Christine laughed. He had proven his point, and he relaxed at her side, staring at her with frank pleasure.

Now that Erik had gained the _something_ that he had always wanted from Christine, he had gone on somewhat of a rampage. His appetite for her had been keen before, but now he could barely keep his hands off of her. He seemed relaxed, even content, and he spent a great deal of time trying to _know_ her more thoroughly – and see how many kinds of sinful feelings he could elicit within her. _So, I suppose this is a honeymoon._ She blushed.

When they were not making love, they made music. Gustave Daaé's violin sang in Erik's capable hands as it had never sung before, even when Gustave himself had played it. Something about Erik's music left Christine without strength in her limbs, so she would lie on the sofa to listen to him and abandon herself to the feelings he stirred within her. But it was when she and Erik sang together in duet that she truly gave up her soul. During their duets, she ascended to Heaven on the wings of Erik's voice to a secret place that only the two of them could share.

Her husband interrupted her thoughts as he stroked her skin. "You know we need to go back to the Victoria tomorrow. It will be closing night, and you will sing Turandot one more time... for your teacher."

"Mmmm...my _teacher_ ," Christine mumbled lazily, looking up at him from under her lashes.

"If you keep looking at me that way, we'll never leave this bed," Erik warned, closing his eyes with an apparent effort. "Little temptress, I am trying to _converse_ with you!"

"Oh, you can do anything with me you'd like," Christine purred, her lips against his jaw. Sometimes she surprised even herself. "Go ahead. Converse with me."

A shiver ran through Erik's body, the long muscles tensing and relaxing in a display that his wife could not help appreciating. He opened his eyes and gasped as he caught her appraising him.

"Conversation be damned," he growled as he swung over and trapped her beneath him once more.

Christine giggled, and everything started up again.

* * *

When Erik was finally obliged to leave their refuge to run errands, Christine moved through its rooms like a dreamer. Soon, they would be leaving together, perhaps forever. Running her fingers over the shelves, which were bare of books now, she turned her attention to the piano. It was a shame that the piano would have to stay, along with all the other large furnishings – she would miss it. She looked down at the patch of floor just behind the bench where she now knew a trapdoor to be. Bending, she examined the rug for any sign of the edges of the door, but the deep pile gave no secrets away.

Curiosity goaded Christine. She had never asked Erik how he controlled his trapdoors, or how many there were and where they might be. The floor was false, she knew, and as fond as Erik was of trapdoors, there were probably many of them, perhaps leading to other tunnels. He had activated the trapdoor which had swallowed Oscuro from outside – and he had done it from somewhere in the tunnels.

As Christine opened the front door, seizing a flashlight, the musty smell of the tunnels rose to her nose. For some reason, the odor awakened a memory, and she started towards a short tunnel that dead-ended near Erik's door. She was sure that there was something there – the ground leading to it was curiously clear of dust. Moving cautiously into its entrance, Christine trained a flashlight on the wall. There was nothing but sandstone surface for several yards, but then the beam of light fell on something. She looked more closely. It was the outline of a cover. In fact, there were several such discreet covers, easy to miss if one weren't looking for them.

Christine hooked her fingers into the crack on the left side of one such rectangular outline, her fingers touching metal. Would the door open to the right or to the left? Whatever the case, it didn't budge when she pulled on it. She tried the other side. It resisted her efforts, too. She sighed, banging on the door with a frustrated fist, and it popped open.

The switches inside of the box looked like circuit breakers. Christine surveyed them all. There must have been about fifty or sixty, and they were labeled in Erik's spidery hand: _1, 1a, 1b, 1c...2, 2a, 2b, 2c, 2d..._

Finding a switch in the middle, she hesitated. But her curiosity got the better of her, and she flipped the switch up. She didn't know what she had expected. A flash of light? An explosion? Whatever it was, nothing happened. She sighed and toggled the switch down again.

There was a change in the stagnant air of the tunnel, the suggestion of a breeze. Erik was on his way back down. Christine closed the door of the breaker box, disappointed, and went back into the house. Within a minute, Erik entered the study, his arms filled with packages.

"Cheese, eggs, coffee, and some of that excellent bread you like, my wife. The bakery is completely illegal, of course, but so are our tastes. Erik will see to it that his wife is well cared for!" He moved to the kitchen with his parcels.

Christine followed him into the kitchen just in time to see him opening a letter.

"You had time to check your mail, then," she observed, and began rifling through the food he had brought. She pulled out a mandarin orange and started to peel it.

Erik's eyes glowed in amusement against the stark white of his mask. "It's a letter from that agent from New York who was supposed to have seen you perform as Turandot on opening night."

"Oh, dear, I'd forgotten about him completely!" Christine exclaimed. "Why are you laughing?"

"He thanks me for inviting him to the most interesting operatic experience he ever had the bad fortune to attend. He says that being attacked by a Bengal tiger was fitting punishment for Carlotta's merciless assault on Puccini..."

"I almost feel sorry for her," Christine said, popping a segment of the orange into her mouth.

"...And he saw _your_ performance the following night and was captivated. You have an appointment with him in New York in a month's time."

"But, Erik!" Christine nearly cried, waving her hands expressively around her expanding midriff.

"We'll deal with that as it comes. I will not permit maternity to sink your career." He had been leaning against the counter, but he straightened to his full, intimidating height as he spoke.

Christine recognized that he had slipped back into his role as her protector and smiled up at him. That disarmed him completely, and she found herself in an almost suffocating embrace.

"I will never have enough of you," he whispered, stroking the wisps of hair that escaped from her bun, then releasing the pins to let her hair tumble out, loose. His hands played with the curls he had released.

"I have something for you that I meant to give you long ago," he finally said. "Come."

Leading her to the study, he held a hand up as a signal for her to wait.

She waited.

" _Christine_!" His voice seemed to boom and echo throughout the house, and Christine wasn't sure whether to run to him or away from him. In the end, she didn't have to decide.

Erik sprinted into the study but halted before he reached his wife. His eyes blazed, and his entire body seemed to tremble with the effort of self-control. Christine backed up a pace.

He breathed deeply. " _What_ have you done?"

She hesitated. "I beg your pardon?"

"Come," he ordered.

Not daring to disobey, Christine followed Erik to his bedroom. She had not seen it for months, nor had she wanted to. The terrible coffin within haunted her, and she had often hinted to Erik that he should get rid of it. So it was with a flicker of pleasure that she scanned the room and saw that there was only bare floor where the coffin had been.

"Oh, you've gotten rid of that horrible coffin! That's wonderful, Erik!" she ventured, still wondering what was upsetting her husband.

He moved so close to her that they were nearly touching, and he looked down at her with eyes that had lost little of their bright anger. She tried to step back, but he held her in place.

"I did not get rid of _that horrible coffin_. It went down a trapdoor somehow. Erik is not the one who sent it down the trapdoor, and Erik does not think it left the house of its own accord, so it must have been _you_ , my dear. Do you have any idea what might have happened to you had you touched any of the other switches? _Did_ you touch any other, Christine? Tell me the truth!"

"No," whispered Christine, blanching slightly as she met his gaze. "I don't know why I tried that one...well, I guess I just wanted to know what might happen."

Erik seemed satisfied that Christine was telling the truth, because he calmed visibly. He remained very still, still looking down at his wife as he recovered.

"Why, you're trembling, Erik!" Christine said, grasping his hand.

He pulled her into a firm embrace. " _Never_ do that again, Christine! Do you have any idea of the variety of dangerous traps Erik has set in his little home, just waiting to activate?"

"At least fifty, from what I've seen. Will you show me some of them?" Christine asked eagerly.

" _No_! Much of what Erik has contrived is not for your tender sensibilities, my love. Let us leave it at that. This place is not fit for you, Christine." He sighed. "The sooner we leave, the better."

"Erik?" she murmured against the crinkling starch of his shirt.

"Yes?"

"Was it something about the coffin you wanted to show me?" she asked, smiling up at him again.

"You will be the death of your poor Erik! No, it was this," he said, and with a magician's twist of the wrist, an amber comb appeared in the palm of his hand. To decorate your lovely hair."

Christine held it up to the light. It was beautifully polished, and she could see some tiny air bubbles within – but dominating the center top of the comb was a scorpion that had been trapped, completely intact, in the ancient resin. Its claws were still thrust forward as if they meant business. Its tail curved round and terminated in a barb that caused Christine to shudder, frozen as it was. The comb's graceful, almost sensuous, curves looked ludicrous as a backdrop for such a creature. She touched the amber's polished surface with her fingertips, fascinated.

"It's lovely," Christine said, smiling again.

"I thought you would like it. You have a taste for dangerous things, my dear." His expression was wistful.

Looking at the trapped scorpion again, Christine had a sense of how much power she held over Erik. She felt instinctively that this gift was his admission of the fact. Both of them were silent, aware of the implicit message, each aware that the other knew it.

She turned tearful eyes to her husband, then renewed their embrace, her ear against his chest. She loved the steady sound of his heartbeat. "All I want is a home with you, Erik. You've said you want to take care of me, but I want to take care of you, too. That's all I want, and I think we'll be happy that way. Don't you?"

His arms around her tightened, and she felt rather than heard his sigh this time. "If the world permits it."


	32. Chapter 32

**Well, this is the chapter that wraps things up! After this, only the epilogue remains. Thanks to all for reading! And special hugs to all who have reviewed. :)  
**

* * *

 _"After 75 years, it's time that Spaniards agreed to say that something terrible happened. These murders are almost a taboo in Spain where the right wing and the left wing have preferred to forget that time. What seems terrible to me is the indifference of all of the governments of Spain and its political class regarding what happened to the victims of Franco and the suffering of the families they left behind."_

 _– Baltasar Garzón at the United Nations, May, 2013_

Christine was ten minutes late to rehearsal the next day. She had simply overslept, and Erik had permitted it.

"You need your sleep, and the company may wait for its diva," he had said firmly.

She nearly ran onto the stage, breathless and apologetic, and was stunned when her fellow artists started to applaud.

Marga had been noisily supervising the chorus' choreography, but she broke away to run to her friend and give her a hug. "We've missed you, chica!"

Christine's understudy, Julia Serrat, was the one who was the most grateful to see her. She had been struggling within the role of Turandot, and though she was competent, she suffered from humiliating comparisons with Christine.

"Very well, children! To work, please!" the director finally called, and discipline reigned once more.

Before Marga had a chance to turn away from her, Christine took her arm. "Could we have a talk after rehearsal? In my dressing room?"

Marga looked surprised but nodded.

As Christine awaited her cue, she gazed searchingly towards the wings. She caught the reassuring glow of yellow eyes, and she smiled.

"I'm leaving the country, Marga. I'm leaving very soon, and I want you to have my flat," said Christine, extending an envelope containing the key to her. "You and Gonzalo can get married now, and you won't have to worry about living with that dragon of a mother of his."

Margarita accepted the envelope slowly. Hope and pain warred with each other on her features, and she sat down heavily in the nearest chair – Marga, who was always so quick and intense that it bordered on hyperactivity, now was as still as a statue.

"I was afraid this day would come," she muttered. "Is it true you _married_ him? Christine..."

"I have something else for you, too," added Christine, taking a deep breath to keep her tears at bay. She moved to her dressing table and, pulling out a drawer, lifted its false bottom. Taking out the box within, she handed it to the dancer.

Marga lifted the lid. "Oh, no, Christine...these are your rubies!"

"Which, by the way, are very real. I'm sorry I told you they were fake once. Please take them – I want to give you a wedding gift, and they never suited me. I've talked with Erik about it, and he's in complete agreement. We're about to travel, and the last thing I need is to carry something like that necklace with me. Here, let's see how they look on you..."

Taking the necklace from Marga's hand, Christine carefully fastened it around the dancer's neck. Against the foil of Margarita's olive skin, dark hair, and gray eyes, the rubies sparkled with a life they had never had on Christine's pale skin.

Christine smiled wistfully. "Look in the mirror. I think these rubies were meant to be yours from the very beginning."

"Christine will have to settle for diamonds instead," Erik said.

Marga, who had been musing over her own reflection in the mirror, jumped and gave a little scream.

"You shouldn't startle people so, Erik!" Christine chided, but she kissed the apparition that had seemingly coalesced from the room's dusty air to stand before them. "I don't believe you've met my husband formally, Margarita."

Courtesy demanded that Erik kiss the terrified dancer on each cheek at this introduction, and Christine was about to insist that he do so – there was no way around it – when a knock at the door spared them the awkward scene.

"Do you have any idea what Deschamps has given us?" Gonzalo Fernández asked as he burst in without waiting for the door to be opened. "Do you know...?" He trailed off nervously as he saw Erik standing near the two women, regal and dark as the night. He seemed completely out of place in the mauve-and-gold dressing room.

"Go ahead, Fernández, tell her. It's small payment for the service you have rendered me," said Erik smoothly, in a tone designed to calm the couple. He glanced meaningfully at Christine as he said this, and everyone in the room understood. Christine dropped her eyes and fought the blush she felt beginning to warm her face.

"Thank you again for telling Erik about what Comandante Oscuro was up to, Gonzalo," she murmured.

"Not at all, Christine," Gonzalo replied, recovering his habitual gallantry with a slight bow.

"What _did_ Erik give you, by the way, if you don't mind my asking?" Christine inquired, noting Marga's look of frustrated curiosity.

Gonzalo withdrew a package from his coat, and, removing the string and brown paper, exposed something wrapped in cloth. As he pulled the cloth away, a flash of yellow metal shone in the light. It was a gold bar.

The expression on Margarita's face was so amusing to Christine that she failed to stifle a giggle. "Marga, your eyes are going to fall out of your head! But you shouldn't be surprised. You and Gonzalo deserve so much for all you've done for me..." she glanced at Erik, who arched a dark brow, and amended, "...for us. All this time, I thought you were with the Regime, Gonzalo. I had no idea that you were really my friend, and I'm sorry it's taken so long for me to realize it."

"But I _am_ with the Regime, dear Christine," said Gonzalo, taking out a cigarette. At a sharp glance from Erik, though, he put the cigarette back in its case, snapped it shut, and started fidgeting. "I'm just practical."

"Gonzalo Fernández has a long history of practicality," Erik remarked dryly. "Do shed some light on it, for my wife's sake. Yes, I know about the things that are _not_ in your dossier, Fernández, but have no fear. No one else will know."

"Oh," said Gonzalo. "Well...as you know, I'm from Asturias, from a small town near Oviedo called Trubia. Perhaps you have heard of the munitions factory there, specializing in cannons and tank-building? It was the town's industry. I was an apprentice when I was young, with hopes of working there, but then...the war happened. I think the war really started when the Asturian coal miners revolted back in 1934. The government was in the hands of the right wing that year, and Franco was sent north with his _africanista_ troops to quell the rebellion..."

"I remember," Christine said. "It was horrible."

"That was the bloodshed that really began things. When Franco and the other generals revolted and turned on the Republic itself, it was no great surprise. Imagine trying to make cuts to a military that was so bloated, so full of _salvapatrias_ , and so accustomed to backing governments...or making them fall.

"At any rate, when the war came to Trubia, we were bombed by the Condor Legion on a regular basis. The funny thing was that they didn't bomb the munitions factory – they bombed the people living all around it instead! The Nationals wanted the munitions factory intact for whenever they won Trubia for themselves. When my father and brother were killed, I became a soldier for the Republic." Fernández's voice had dropped to a low murmur, so that Christine had to draw nearer to hear him.

"You were a soldier for the Republic? You were a _loyalist_?" Christine whispered, astonished.

"I was. Asturias remained in Republican hands, except for Oviedo. Aranda, that jackal of a colonel, sent loyalists south to defend Madrid, then betrayed Oviedo and declared it to be National. Oviedo was like an island in the middle of the loyalist sea that was Asturias back then. Naturally, it fell under siege immediately. I was one of the soldiers, a corporal, involved with that enterprise. But things started looking very bad for us by the autumn of 1937. Asturias became isolated. Galician troops had arrived, forming a corridor to Oviedo from the west, and more National troops had come up from the south. The Italians and Germans were helping the Nationals, and at the Battle of El Mazuco we were running out of ammunition, getting bombed by the Condor Legion, and starving. We had no air support at all. The way things were going looked clear to me – we were in retreat, and Asturias was going to fall. One night, I changed into civilian clothes and journeyed to Oviedo. It took me days, but I had cousins there who were active in the Falange. They helped me – they invented a story for me, got me a uniform, pulled some strings, and I was soon a soldier with the Nationals. I promised my cousins that I would be a good little fascist, and I have been, haven't I?"

Christine shook her head. "So that's how you joined the Nationals."

"Exactly. I had seen enough to know that it doesn't matter how you fight – you can't change anything. Not unless you're a general. And even our General Rojo, as brilliant as he was, was unable to stem the Nazi-backed Nationals – not for long.

"As far as anyone knows beyond this room, I was always with the Nationals, a Falangist to the bone," Gonzalo concluded. "My career is based on that presumption. But I'm a practical man, not dogmatic, and I know it pays to play both sides of any conflict as far as you safely can. Still, I flatter myself that I have a heart."

"You do, Gonzalo. You _do_ have a heart, and a great one," Marga said to him, tenderness in her gaze.

Christine glanced at Erik. It seemed that both he and Fernández shared the same basic philosophy. Yet _she_ still believed in the Republic, believed in the Allied cause – and that was why Erik would now be working only for _one_ side. Maybe one person _could_ make a difference.

So immersed in her thoughts was Christine that she stared at the floor for a few seconds, gradually becoming aware of the tiny bloodstain on the rug. The blood had been left there that time Carlotta had slapped her. _Carlotta..._

"Did somebody really mean for that Bengal tiger to attack Carlotta – or to attack me – on opening night?" Christine asked suddenly. If anyone knew, it would be Gonzalo, she felt. And she was right.

"It was your old friend Paqui," Gonzalo answered. "Several people saw her lingering near the tiger's cage throughout that morning and afternoon. She must have intended to kill you, Christine, though I'm not quite sure why – perhaps for her friend Carlotta's sake? Yet it's strange that she did nothing to stop Carlotta from being attacked. We've been trying to find Paqui to arrest her, but the woman seems to have disappeared completely."

Christine glanced searchingly at Erik, but decided that it was unlikely that he would have done anything to the woman. She had simply flown.

"I don't care about Paqui," Christine decided. "Wherever she is, she'll make herself miserable. But I'm wondering what's going to become of Carlotta."

"Oh, I've taken care of her – no, you need not worry, she won't be killed," said Erik. "The British Embassy has lodged a protest with the Spanish government against the completely unreasonable arrest of Carlotta Caracciolo. The Allies insist on her innocence and express concern over her health, and they want assurances she will receive some semblance of a fair trial."

"What?" Margarita asked flatly.

But Gonzalo was laughing. "It's a tactic. It makes Carlotta appear to be an important spy, when she's really nothing at all but a shrew. It also diverts unwelcome attention away from Christine."

Erik merely nodded, folding his arms.

"Oh, that's wonderful!" Marga exclaimed. "They'll keep Carlotta in prison forever even if they don't kill her. Our managers are finally beginning to relax again. She really had them over a barrel! And, you know, I think Gonzalo might get a promotion now, now that..." She trailed off uncertainly.

"Now that Comandante Oscuro's gone?" Christine supplied.

It was clear that Gonzalo and Margarita presumed Oscuro to be dead. Everyone in the secret police knew what Erik's temperament was like. Marga had glimpsed Oscuro leaving the Victoria with Christine that night, had known something was wrong, and had told Gonzalo. And Gonzalo had approached Erik, knowing perfectly well that Erik would kill Oscuro. Christine was grateful to them all. Without their intervention, Oscuro would certainly have killed her – as well as the child growing within her.

Glancing surreptitiously at Erik, Christine thought of how little she actually knew her husband. Composer, architect, magician, strategist, mercenary, _killer_... Oscuro had met Erik's darkest, most terrifying self, the man Christine had nearly glimpsed once or twice - the man Christine never wanted to see. She remembered the screams she heard when Oscuro was alone with Erik in that pit, and she shivered.

"There is a bit of a draft in this room. Christine must return home to rest now, before her performance tonight. You will excuse us," Erik said, looking at Christine speculatively.

As they left the dressing room, Christine noticed that Gonzalo and Margarita looked relieved. She realized with a pang that Erik's presence made them uncomfortable, even nervous, despite how much they had enjoyed the conversation.

They left the theater through the dark, neglected hallways. When they reached the place where Christine had seen Erik for the first time as a reflection in Klingsor's mirror, she stopped.

"You really _did_ abduct me because you thought you couldn't just introduce yourself to me as any other man would. You were too accustomed to people responding to you with fear," Christine murmured, more to herself than to Erik.

"True," Erik agreed, "and, if I had it to do all over again, I would do the exact same thing."

He grinned wolfishly, and Christine laughed.

That evening, after Christine had sung one last time for her husband, she ran backstage to her old dressing room – and into his waiting arms. As he escorted her out of the theater, she took one last look at the Victoria. Then, they got into the Mercedes and started their long journey to Lisbon – and to their new life.


	33. Chapter 33

**Well, this is it - the epilogue, and it's time to say goodbye, dear readers! Many thanks for continuing to follow this story to its end, and special thanks to those who have taken the time and trouble to review. Hugs to each and every one of you!**

 **Shameless reminder: Both _Tightrope_ and the original story I've co-written with Alex Rivers, _The Falconer_ , are available on Amazon under my pen name, Chapucera. :)  
**

* * *

 _On March 18, 1941, Nazi spy Ulrich von der Osten, who was carrying Spanish documents identifying him as Julio López_ _Lido, died after being run over in New York. Based on this accident, the FBI unraveled a network of Nazi spies in New York directed by Kurt Frederick Ludwig, a German agent originally from Ohio who wrote his messages to Germany in invisible ink. He sent them directly to Himmler via Spain, where Himmler had a post office box in the assumed name of Manuel Alonso. Afterwards, between the tenth and sixteenth of June of the same year, Franco arranged with Hitler (through their ministers Serrano Súñer and Ribbentrop) to send 45 Nazi spies to the United States...the German Nazis spied in the U.S. under the coverage of Spanish "neutrality" and Spanish identities._

 **–** _Eduardo Martín de Pozuelo, interviewed by Enric Llopis: "La España nazi de Franco, una historia por contar,"_ Rebelió

Gustave nursed with one of his small hands clinging to the side of his mother's breast. He didn't think it was going to go away anytime soon, but it was always best to be on the safe side. He was three months old now, and he knew his mother's face very well. She was the sun to him, but right now, even as he nursed, he had his eyes fixed on his father, who was an even brighter star.

Despite his tender age, Gustave had made an important decision. He loved the pretty lady who fed him and bathed him and sang to him and made much of him...but he wanted to _be_ the tall man who always moved within his mother-sun's orbit. The baby's senses were new, keen, and searched their surroundings constantly for information. The dispatches they sent back told him that the man had cool, soothing hands, smelled like adventure, and knew how to speak to him. The man didn't just speak that strange, fluid code that _everyone_ seemed to use. He also knew the soothing sounds a baby likes. The man knew best how to calm him whenever the hard work of having to learn _everything_ seemed too much and made him cry.

"I think he wants _you_ to hold him," he heard his mother say.

Those indecipherable sounds! She was using that infernal code again. A shadow crossed the baby's sunny brow, and he huffed in frustration. Sooner or later, he would crack that code.

As Gustave was lifted into his father's arms, he crowed with pleasure. He looked into the man's face with eager fascination. His fingers wanted to explore the rugged terrain on the left side of that face, wanted to touch those wonderful yellow eyes that glowed like the stars. Mostly, he wanted to put it all in his mouth. Mouth-testing everything was becoming very important. He wasn't sure why; he just knew it was.

"Do you suppose he's teething? It's early yet, but look at his gums..." It was his mother's voice, but Gustave kept his eyes on his father's face.

His mother put one of her fingers into his mouth and touched the little sore place that had been bothering him. Pleased, he clamped down.

"Ouch! I think there's a tooth erupting."

The yellow eyes looked sternly at Gustave, and the baby stared, his eyes round and his mouth open, as he absorbed this new expression.

"Young man, did you have the audacity to _bite_ your mother?" His father's tone told the baby that he was displeased somehow, but the eyes were amused. Gustave decided to pay attention only to what those glowing eyes were telling him, and he crowed again.

"Little scoundrel!" the man chided, but his eyes still held the glow that Gustave so loved.

Still holding the baby, Gustave's father began to draw his mother towards him. This was something the man did quite often and one of the reasons the baby liked him so much. Gustave was perceptive – he was a professional _baby_ , after all. Being perceptive was part of the learning process, and learning was what the business of his life was all about. Gustave perceived the man's heart the way the earth perceives the sunlight. To be fair, he perceived his mother's heart, too, but it was a much calmer heart and didn't yammer for reassurance all the time the way the man's did. The baby understood his need completely. When you're helpless, you need reassurance the way you need a light in the darkness.

"Come here." The man was using the magnet-voice that drew everyone to him. It worked, of course. His mother came, took Gustave into her arms, and sat down on the man's lap. Gustave cooed, then hooted experimentally, looking at his mother. _Look, a new noise!_ She was always impressed by such things.

His father's arms were long and strong enough to hold everyone, and Gustave yawned contentedly. He parents cooed to each other in their private code, then at him. The world was perfect.

* * *

It was 1942, and it was June, and it was New York. Pearl Harbor had happened just after Erik and his wife had arrived in the United States, and Christine had watched, horrified, as the United States entered the nightmare war that had spread all over the world. Erik bore the events with the ennui of someone who has been shown the script before seeing the play.

"The U.S. is still the best place to be," Erik had assured her. "There is an ocean separating us from the action in either direction."

"And the U-boats in the Gulf and on the Atlantic coast?" Christine had asked.

"Troops do not disembark from U-boats, nor do they drop bombs."

New Yorkers did not feel safe, though. Erik was spending long hours at Rockefeller Center, where British intelligence was working in cooperation with its American counterpart. Shoring up defensive infrastructure on the home front was as important a matter as identifying any spy networks or possible targets of sabotage. On the days when there were arrests, Erik was often gone all evening.

One thing Christine would always remember about that time was the telephone ringing incessantly. The telephone interrupted their meals, their conversations, their sleep, and their music lessons. It never interrupted their love-making. That was where Erik drew the line. He left the telephone off the hook whenever they were intimate, and he told his wife that the world could burn for all he cared.

She received her rationing books and stamps with resignation. Whatever shortages there might be, she had had long experience coping. There seemed to be no shortage of potatoes, and she used them so often that the baby's first word after "mama" and "papa" was "'tato."

Adapting to New York was something Christine did with the ease of a prisoner adapting to newfound freedom. That didn't mean she didn't make mistakes. During one of Erik's work absences, she decided to go to Mass, and she went to the church nearest their apartment. The church turned out to be Methodist, and Christine was completely lost during the service. Over time, as she listened to people in conversation, she gradually learned something that boggled her mind: Methodists spoke of "good Catholics," Presbyterians spoke of "good Methodists," Baptists spoke of "good Methodists," and so on. There was no One True Church to which every Christian was forced to belong, no One True Faith in which people were forced to believe. She looked with amazement at the first synagogue she passed. The existence of such a thing was unthinkable in Franco's New Spain.

The city was filled with soldiers and immigrants of all kinds, and there was a bustle and vitality that at first frightened Christine, then intrigued her. Yet the best part of her new life in New York, she felt, was the burgeoning arts scene – and before she knew it, she and Erik became part of it.

Christine's first role was as Zerlina in "Don Giovanni," in the Lyceum Opera Theater. It was March of 1943. Gustave was a year old, and a cook and nanny had been added to the Deschamps' Park Avenue household.

"It's a good start for you," Erik declared the evening his wife landed the role. "You will have the entire city at your feet, my love."

But although Christine was acclaimed by the public and critics alike as Zerlina, and later as Mimì in "La bohème," the city was not to be at her feet for very long.

"Erik?" Christine cursed her nervousness. Her voice was thick with it. She stood before her husband, who had been working all evening in his study. His desk was a huge, dark, Victorian-looking thing.

Erik looked up from the papers he had been examining. "Yes?"

The telephone rang, and she began to retreat, almost relieved at the interruption. But Erik continued to hold her with his gaze and, picking up the receiver, let it drop again, effectively cutting off the call. "Tell me, Christine."

"Nothing...don't let me disturb you," she said, her gaze dropping to the floor.

He was standing in front of her in an instant, his hand lifting her chin. He scrutinized her. "If you have been trying to gain my complete and undivided attention – as well as my alarm - you have done an excellent job of it. Tell me, Christine."

"I'm expecting again." She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping to spare herself the disappointment she would inevitably see in his eyes. They had both worked so hard for her career...and now this. "I don't need to kill a rabbit to know it, either," she added mournfully.

She heard Erik's intake of breath, felt his arms around her. "Christine," he said, and his voice had that rare silvery quality to it that it had when he was overwhelmed by something. "Please don't tell your Erik that you are unhappy about this?"

She did not dare look into his eyes, confused as she was. "Not unhappy. I'm just worried. First of all, you've worked so hard to give me the voice I have, the career I have. And there's something else..."

"What is it?"

"Sometimes I look at Gustave when he's sleeping in his crib, and I worry about the world. What will become of him in a world like this? What will become of his little brother or sister? Everyone's at war, people are doing terrible things to each other...the world is burning!"

"Christine, the world has always burned. There has always been evil and there always will be evil. Better times will come, I promise you." His arms tightened around her. "You have made Erik a happy man, no matter what you think. Once, there was no light in Erik's life. Once, there was no question that Erik would die alone, unloved, with no one to save him. Now, however..." He smiled, gazing down at his wife in a way that made her blush. "You still have no idea how very much I adore you."

"Papa?" Gustave had come padding into the study unperceived.

"Gustave... didn't I just put you to bed?" Christine asked, trying her best to look stern, though Erik still held her by the waist.

"Up!" Gustave demanded, looking at his father, his blue eyes huge and sleepy under his dark mop of curls. He was fighting sleep with every ounce of energy he had.

"Up, and off to bed with you, young man," Erik said, sweeping the child into his arms. "You, my boy, need all the sleep you can get. You will soon be a big brother." And with the toddler under one arm and his other arm around his wife, he left the study with his family.

* * *

It was May, and it was 1945, and Christine was pushing a stroller down the sidewalk with one hand while pulling Gustave along slowly with the other. Everywhere they looked, there was noise, and there were people. They were shouting, singing, and many were dancing. Nearby, someone set off a firecracker. Christine's progress was stop-and-go as she pushed her way through the crowd.

"What are all these people doing here?" Gustave asked, his dark brow furrowed. He was a solemn little three-year-old now, and most of his conversation consisted of questions, much to the delight of his father. Erik had the soul of a teacher.

"They're celebrating the end of the war in Europe," Christine explained. "Now, if this gentleman would just let us pass..."

The man turned his head and focused first on Christine, grinning. His grin faded as he took in the little boy and the toddler in the stroller, and he grunted and gave way.

"Julian's needed to be changed for an hour now," Christine muttered, more to herself than to Gustave.

"Why so glum, lady? The war's over in Europe! Mussolini's dead! Hitler's dead! Hey, we won!" A young man of about seventeen addressed Christine loudly as he jostled her. Without waiting for an answer, he launched himself at a group of young women who were singing "Over There" out of tune. The song ended, and there were screams of laughter.

 _And Franco still has Spain in his bloody clutches_ , Christine thought bitterly.

In his stroller, Julian kicked and turned his head to look at his mother, his amber eyes alive with curiosity. He was a quiet child, not nearly as vocal as his big brother – except for the laughter. Julian seemed to think life was a splendid joke, and he laughed often.

Christine nearly shrieked when Gustave was suddenly lifted away from her, but she let go of his hand when she saw who had done it. "Come, let me take you home."

The crowd seemed to part like the Red Sea for Erik, and he escorted his family the remaining few blocks home unimpeded by revelers.

"I have bought something for you, Christine," Erik told her as they went up to their floor in the elevator.

She smiled and kissed him on his exposed cheek. He always coddled her when he sensed she was entering a stretch of melancholy. "You needn't buy me anything, Erik. Please don't go to all the bother."

"I must confess that it is as much for me as for you, my dear. I have acquired the Lyceum Opera Theatre."

"You...you bought an opera house?" Christine's voice sounded thin and reedy.

"The opera house and all its contents, et cetera, as it says in the contract," he said smoothly. "Complete artistic control included."

Christine stood, stunned, and did not move when the elevator doors opened. Erik escorted the children out of the elevator – then turned back, swept his wife into his arms, and set her down next to his sons.

Erik's hands remained on his wife's arms, steadying her gently. "You still have no idea how very much I adore you," he whispered in her ear.

Julian laughed.

* * *

It was 1955, and it was June. Fascist Spain had been admitted to the United Nations and Franco was hailed as an ally of the United States in its fight to contain Communism. The men who had fought so bravely for the Spanish Republic in the Lincoln Brigade were viewed with suspicion by J. Edgar Hoover, who saw Reds everywhere. The Cold War was in full swing.

"I guess Joe McCarthy would put me on trial as a Red, too," Christine remarked with some bitterness. "He sees more Communists behind the trees than even Franco did..."

"The difference is that he has started to fall out of favor. People are disgusted with him, and common sense has returned – for now," Erik remarked, kissing the back of her neck. "Don't worry. Nothing will ever happen to _you_."

"Not while you're around. I know that." Christine turned to kiss her husband, loving the old, familiar light in his eyes.

The Lyceum Opera Theater had been a success. It could not have been otherwise with a force like Erik behind it. His compositions were published everywhere now – under a pseudonym. As always, Erik remained in the shadows, but never far from Christine.

Christine had become a diva in her own right, and her career was reaching its zenith. She now had both the emotional depth and maturity to tackle an immense variety of roles. Erik delighted in challenging her abilities and testing her range. Now that she was older and more self-assured in her talents, she accepted such challenges with aplomb. Audiences loved them both – the diva with the voice of gold, and the mysterious composer whose music awakened their very souls.

Gus (Gustave was "Gus" now, at his own insistence) and Julian were being reared in the opera house. They arrived every day after school and did their homework there, took music lessons there, and played there. Gus was still his father's likeness and shadow, though there were notable physical differences, chief among them the boy's lack of a deformity. His dignified bearing was a carbon copy of his father's. Yet Julian was completely different. He was everything that was obedient and charming at home, but outside the family circle, he was considered a hellion – at least by his teachers. The boy was immensely popular with the other children in his class, though.

"Another note from your teacher?" Christine cried in dismay as he handed her an envelope with the familiar handwriting on it.

Julian shrugged but a deep blush gave away his inner turmoil. He seated himself at the piano and began to play a spirited rendition of "The Beer Barrel Polka."

"Julian? You set off a stink bomb in another boy's locker?" Julian's mother was an opera singer, and he could not drown her out, even with his foot pressed down hard on the sustain pedal.

"I would very much like to hear your explanation for _that_ ," Erik said, entering the manager's office with a bulky bag filled with their daily mail. Gus followed him, loping in close behind on legs that were nearly as long as his father's.

"Is this about the stink bomb?" Gus asked eagerly. "That was pure genius! They had to evacuate the whole hall!"

Julian grinned up at his brother while Christine covered her face with her hands, mortified. "How _could_ you?"

Erik approached Julian, who automatically stood up to face him, his smile fading. Like Gus, he adored his father, and he lived for his approval. He looked his father in the eyes. Julian always looked everyone in the eyes.

Gus intervened before anyone had a chance to speak. "Father, Julian set off the stink bomb in Lou Walsh's locker because he picked on little Ruthie Liebowitz. You know how Julian is."

There it was. Julian was the hero of his class because he was its vigilante. He kept his peers in line through waspish humor and the occasional prank. Any bully would soon find his lunchbox exploding, or would develop inexplicable rashes. Julian had a passion for chemistry that had proven very fruitful. His teachers took a dim view of his talent, though.

"Sweetheart," Christine said, "I understand you wanted to defend your friend, but if you keep playing pranks like this, they'll never let you advance a grade. You're doing work at a much higher level than the rest of your class, but your teacher won't let you move up until your behavior improves."

"I don't _want_ to skip a grade," Julian spat, glowering. "I don't _want_ to leave my friends."

"You won't really miss them – you can see them at lunch, anyway," offered Gus, who had been advanced two years himself. "The thing that's bothering _you_ is that you're sweet on Ruthie Liebowitz."

Julian flushed again, his fair complexion going crimson. His amber eyes flashed furiously at his brother. " _You_ -"

"I am proud of you, Julian." Erik, who had been watching the drama in quiet amusement, had finally spoken, and the room fell silent. "I am proud of you both."

Both brothers stood taller and glanced at each other, thrilled.

"You see, Mom? Everything is okay," Julian said to Christine, who first shook her head at him, then kissed him.

"I'm still going to have to see your teacher," Christine said.

"I can talk to her if you'd like, Mom," Gus offered. He had taken on the air of an adult lately, and Christine felt a pang. Time was going by quickly.

"Thank you, Gus, but I'll do it," Christine replied, kissing his cheek.

As the boys left the office, talking animatedly, Christine started to check the mail. She received fan mail every day now, and even the occasional package. As she sorted the bills out from the personal mail, her hand halted on a letter with a French stamp and postmark. The handwriting on it looked vaguely familiar. She opened it.

"More fan mail, my love?" Erik was hovering dangerously close.

Christine cursed his impeccable instinct for detecting _anything_ that she might like to hide from him. "What would you say if I told you that I've just received another letter from Marga?"

It was an obvious subterfuge, and she thought it was a rather good one. Marga wrote often, though the threat of censorship left the tone of her letters bland. She and Gonzalo were well, still living in Barcelona, and happily childless. Christine suspected that Gonzalo's position permitted him to travel to France and smuggle condoms back home with him.

Erik did not blink, and his eyes bore into his wife. "What would I say?" he repeated almost contemplatively. "I would say you are lying." The final words came out as a hiss. "Would you care to tell me the truth, my dear?"

Christine inhaled sharply. It had been a long time since her husband had frightened her, and she hastened to appease him with honesty. "Raoul's extending an olive branch. He's been married to a nice girl from Brittany for ten years now, and they have a three-year-old daughter. And he's regarded as a war hero, of course, and is now the mayor of a small town. He's enclosed a photograph..." Christine handed the letter to Erik, but held on to the photograph so that she could look at it. There Raoul was – he had put on weight and he was wearing a suit – something he had almost never done when she knew him. Sitting next to him was a pretty woman with dark hair. She held a little girl in her lap who was dimpling at the camera.

Erik perused the letter quickly, then closed his fingers on it slightly as if to crush it. His fingers trembled with his effort to control the impulse. He shut his eyes. "Christine...forgive me. Erik is still as terrible as ever, still as jealous as ever, and I fear that will never change. I shall always love you to the point of insanity."

As Erik clung to her, his heart beating wildly, Christine stroked his back with one hand, while the other one held him firmly. How could she reassure the man she loved so desperately of the breadth and depth of her love?

"You still have no idea how very much _I_ adore _you_ , Erik."

 _On November 20, 1975, Francisco Franco finally died – and, in Madrid and other cities, bars ran out of champagne._


End file.
